FAKE Annual 2012 by FAKE Magazine

FAKE

The Annual Winter 2012 FREE

Hello, and welcome to our first annual. This is a ‘bumper’ FAKE, with some of our best bits from the past five issues. It was incredibly difficult not to just pack the full five issues into this virtual edition as we love all of our contributors’ work, but we’ve managed to narrow it down to a mere 120 pages of loveliness; with content ranging from that of our first issue in June 2011, up to our most recent, the Dreams Edition, which was published in June 2012. We’ve been on a short hiatus these past few months, gathering our thoughts on where to take FAKE next and how to make it better than ever. We won’t go into the ‘print isn’t dead’ argument here - safe to say it can be quite a costly endeavour! But nevertheless one we will continue with as we still believe there’s nothing better than flicking through a printed magazine. We started FAKE whilst we were still students and didn’t know where it was going to take us, but we’re really happy with how things have been going and hope to carry on this upward spiral. Juggling full-time jobs and living in different counties wasn’t something we anticipated all those months planning FAKE 001! Thank you for your continued support with FAKE, and to all of our FAKE family, new and old. Many of our contributors have become good friends, and we’re so happy to have worked with such wonderful, talented people for over a year and a half. Our next issue is out in December, and we hope that you’ll enjoy this free online edition and pre-order your copy of FAKE 006 to see what we have in store for you. Love, Kerry and Sophie FAKE Editors

This magazine is lovingly curated by:

Kerry Leslie

Co-Editor & Creative Director

Sophie Benson

Co-Editor & Fashion Director

Illustration Abigail Hutton

Haunting Our Streets Words Kerry Leslie Illustration Rebecca Abell

On a recent visit to New York, I spotted a bike on the streets of Brooklyn. I thought it may have been an installation or a local arts project. What I didn’t know at the time, was that it was a Ghost Bike, a memorial, or ‘quiet statement’ for remembrance for cyclists who were killed or hit on the street. If I had known that I would have appreciated the beauty of the bicycle in an entirely different way. A Ghost Bike is an old bicycle which becomes a public reminder of the tragedies; it is painted white, and often decorated in flowers tributes. The Ghost Bikes are placed on streets where the accidents have happened, along with a memorial plaque about the deceased. The first Ghost Bikes were created in St.Louis, Missouri in 2003, and since then they have appeared in over 150 locations worldwide. It all began when a young man called Patrick Van Der Tuin saw a van hit a woman in a cycle lane, later that night he placed a white bicycle at the crash site with a notice that read “Cyclist struck here”. He observed that vehicles and

pedestrians passing by slowed down, taking note of the memorial. Ghostbikes.org is a mainly New York based organisation, but they are keen to find out more information about the movement in other areas. They take submissions from various countries, seeking out the skeletal shrines that have been popping up in towns and cities across the globe. I only saw one whilst in New York, but since 2005, 80 ghost bicycles have been placed on the streets to commemorate 128 known fatalities, including 47 individuals whom GhostBikes.org have no information. Annually, the Ghost Bike organisation arrange a memorial ride visiting each site which allows other cyclists to pay their respects, and appreciate the efforts made by the group in order to remember the dead. The movement has been gaining pace over the past few years as more people learn about it; a UK

version of the organisation has been developed, however it began by mapping out dangerous areas with the bikes rather than having them as ghostly memorials. I have read stories about how some of the memorials have been misunderstood; a few years ago, a memorial to James Foster in Essex Road in London was vandalised, it was missing its front wheel, pedals and handlebars, it hung off its post looking battered and unloved. It is such a shame, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d hope that if the vandals knew more about the project they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have reacted in such a destructive manner. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a touching grass-roots campaign which prompts drivers and cyclists to be careful. The bikes serve as a chilling reminder which has purpose to initiate change to make streets safer. However what comes across most, is that the Ghost Bikes are powerful and thoughtful tributes for families, friends and communities who have lost their loved ones.

It’s all around you Words Andy Reeve Photography Andy Reeve & Considerate Trespassing

It’s freezing cold and still dark outside, there’s no way I want to get out of my nice warm bed just to go to work. But unfortunately we live in a world where bills need to be paid, and that’s one thing my nice warm bed can’t help with. So I finally crawl out of bed, eat, shower, get dressed and get ready for the day ahead. This is when things start to look up. I’m lucky enough to be able to cycle to work and despite living in the middle of a city, this ride to work is full of nature’s beauty and never fails to perk me up. This ride always gives me the inspiration to take photographs, the obvious sunrise and sunset ones of course but I also enjoy trying to find the beauty in the smaller more intricate details which are the building blocks of the natural world. I’m certainly not the first person to be inspired by their surroundings, every idea is based on inspiration from somewhere and quite often that inspiration comes from what’s around us. This is evident in everything from architecture, fashion, jewellery right through to Maori tattoos and advertising. As you can see from the range of features in this issue. Nature, although a consistent source of inspiration is not itself immune from the whims of fashion, its role in these creative arenas is cyclical. Photography itself has now reached a stage where so many people own cameras good enough to capture a stunning sunset or the character of the fluffiest of animals. This has driven some photographers away from these types of images which they see as clichéd or overdone to the other end of the spectrum. Urban environments are 6

seen as the antithesis of this and it is to these areas where these photographers are drawn. Considerate Trespassing, one of the best at Urbex (urban exploring) photography, who was featured in Issue 001 of FAKE shows that a different kind of beauty can be found in harsh, abandoned buildings. Yet although they may not think it at first, the Urbex photographers are just as inspired by nature as are landscape photographers. The rust patch on a clothes rail abandoned in a factory is a product of natural elements in the air combining with the steel in the room to create interesting colours, tones and patterns. Yes it is a record of man’s impact on the environment and that’s important to document but it also shows Mother Nature fighting back. The dereliction created in these factories or offices is the result of wind and rain battering the building and creating the focal points for the fantastic pictures they take. Nature is always going to be there for inspiration, even in the most unlikely of forms and sometimes it will be purely subconscious. Everyone’s experience of nature will be different. How they are inspired will be different. This is what leads us to new, exciting and interesting ideas from the very same natural environment which has always been there and will be for centuries to come. No idea can come from nowhere so why not get out on your bike and experience the nature around you. The only thing stopping you is that nice warm bed.

Top, middle Andy Reeve Left Considerate Trespassing Overleaf Andy Reeve

Supermarket Stitch Soft Sculptures Holly Levell Words Kerry Leslie & Sophie Benson Photography Sophie Benson

“The odds of going to a supermarket for a loaf of bread and coming out with only a loaf of bread are three billion to one.” Erma Bombeck. Holly Levell recreates iconic packaging from brands such as Heinz, McVities and Fairy, using felt and embroidery as her medium. She takes these British kitchen cupboard staples and gives them a softer feel by, ironically, making them rough around the edges. “I didn’t want it to be liked by just people of the art and craft community, I wanted a normal passerby to notice and have a reaction.” She has been able to successfully do this through her chosen subject matter and quirky style. These are the brands that many of us have grown up with, they evoke childhood memories, and feelings of nostalgia. “My favourite will always be the Heinz Bean can” Holly says, she thinks it’s because it was the first one she made, and it completely changed her approach to embroidery and textiles. We would be intrigued to see her versions of the famous designs printed as labels on the packaging itself. It would also be great to see how she would apply her style to even more intricate designs such as Pearlfisher’s type-heavy Absolut Vodka artwork, or even minimalist packaging such as 1960s Supermarket’s own brand labels, for instance the Tesco Value range. Holly has continued to build on her idea, developing the Supermarket Stitch across a wider range of brands, including those establishing themselves as future classics. She has also created other wonderful cosmetic inspired pieces. Everyone can be sentimental about memorable branded packaging, it reminds us of mealtimes whilst growing up, with a bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup stood proudly on the table as part of the furniture of our daily life.

Doppelgänger Words Mathew Leslie Frost Illustration Lee Crutchley

I jumped onto the (thankfully) late train. The 1.44 to Birmingham New Street, although I only need to go to Aston. I think this every time I get on the train; it fills the gap from getting on to sitting down, which can sometimes take a while. I plop into a seat; a sweaty mess from the dash to the station. An attractive image, I know, but please calm down, there’s more. I take off my thick tweed coat, and notice a similar one on the person in front of me. Their back is to me, but it’s a familiar looking back. The way the hair parts in about 7 directions on the back of their head, tucked under a grey miner’s cap. The huge earlobes protruding from the sides of their head. Even the very distinctive mole I have… they have on the back of their neck. It’s all very familiar. “Nice coat” I say, in the hope they’ll turn around. “Nicer than yours pet”. Pet? You don’t find many Geordies in Birmingham. I’m one of them. His voice was so… familiar. Almost familial… “Is that you Liam?” I ask in hope of this being a visit from my brother, and I’ve coincidentally caught the same train as him. Which would be very unusual, as he drives. “It’s 12

not Liam, but you’re on the right track”. He spun round and parked himself opposite me. I looked him up and down. Yellow converse, dark blue jeans, KISS t-shirt. His face was…mine. Mutton chops and a shit moustache. Except his looked good. His looked better. I knew what this was. He was a doppelganger. An exact copy of me. Except I distinctly remember seeing mine back home in Newcastle, but I was the better looking one in that instance. He hung around in the city centre wearing a very snug grey hoody and baggy jeans. He had a fringe the length of his face with a dyed pink streak, and he wore eyeliner. I DEFINITELY trumped him. So this person on the train couldn’t possibly be him, because, well, he was me but…just better. One thing I recalled about doppelgangers is not to catch their eye. If you do that then you create a paradox, and neither of you can exist, and so you just don’t. You just stop existing, and no one misses you, because they don’t remember you. I stared at his man boobs, or more precisely, where his man boobs should have been. His t-shirt wasn’t snug, in fact it hung off of him, like it was too big. I resisted another look at his face, so as not to catch his eye and stop being.

His hands wrapped around my cheeks with a vice like grip. He stared me in the eyes, a cold, hateful stare. “Don’t believe everything you read Mathew Leslie Frost, this is happening, you won’t stop existing, and what comes next won’t be comfortable. Well not for you at least. You’re pathetic, Mathew. You talk a big talk but you are a shy, pathetic excuse for a man, which is why you’re single, and why no one sees you as anything more than their ‘cuddly’ friend. And we both know ‘cuddly’ means fat.” I…he was right. This was uncomfortable. And he still had a hold of my face. “There’s a girl over there. You know she’s there, because she gets the same trains as you every day. She even smiles at you, because she notices you. But you’re spineless. You daren’t talk to her for fear of rejection, and that’s why you’ll never get ANYWHERE. Be bold. Shy bairns get NOWT.” I did see her every day. I knew she smiled at me. I ached to talk to her. But it was too late. ‘I’m you, version 2 mate’. He swaggered across the carriage, and sat next to her. As we approached Aston, he

was walking to the door with his arm around her. It should have been me. IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME. He was everything I wanted to be… everything I SHOULD be…everything I COULD BE. As the new couple departed the train, he looked back, doffed his cap to me and gave a wink, as if to say “Fuck you, I’m better.” I slumped into my chair as a tear rolled down my cheek. “Never again” I thought. No more pussy footing around subjects. No more fear of rejection. Caution was being thrown into the wind. Shy bairns get nowt. We went through a tunnel, which I didn’t recognise. As we came from darkness to light, my surroundings were familiar. “The train will now be arriving at Perry Barr.” Then I saw. Running down the stairs, the yellow converse, the dark blue jeans, the tweed coat. He jumped on to the train, lost in a daydream as he found a seat looking at my back. He plopped down, a sweaty mess. “Nice coat”, he says. 13

Five boys talk Naturism. (It wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have been the Nature Issue without a bit of nudism.) Words (in chronological order) Lee Crutchley, Reiss Smith, Jake Cocking, Sam FW and Michael Pope-Presley Illustration Tim Hunt / Ficklefate.

I met G and S while I was travelling from India to Nepal. They were a lovely Australian couple in their 60s who now lived in London. My travel buddy Teresa and I hung around with them all the way to Kathmandu, and they revealed early on in the friendship that they were naturists. So obviously we regressed to 13 year olds and bombarded them with questions. Why do you do it? Where do you do it? Does anyone with a small cock do it? The usual. But the burning question of course was, ARE YOU SWINGERS? Because we all know that naturist is secret code for sex-crazed-orgy-addict. G and S continually insisted they weren’t swingers. They were just normal people like you or I who enjoyed being naked. After a week of trying to catch them out we admitted defeat. It seemed that normal people could just hang out together naked without sex being involved. On our last night in Nepal Teresa and I needed a place to stay, and as G and S had a huge 2 bed suite they kindly offered us their spare. We thanked them with a meal at a nice-ish looking restaurant. We ate a lot, and drank a lot, and had a lot of fun. A very drunken G described to the waiter how to make a banana split, and as he ran away to find some ice cream and bananas, G announced - “Ok. It’s time for the truth, we are actually swingers!” Dear Naturist, As hard as it must be for you to read this, please know that it is even harder for me to write it (mainly because I’m made of cotton and have no fingers, but I digress). Each year when the summer arrives, you jet off to that beach you’re oh so fond of. Every time I get so excited, thinking maybe this will be the year that you finally take me with you, and every time I’m left disappointed.You waltz off with your sandals and your bum bag, leaving me crying in the back of your drawer, with nothing but socks and pants for company. You always tell me “it’s not you, it’s me”, but I can’t help but feel that you don’t want to be seen with me, like I’m cramping your style somehow. The worst part is, every time you return I come running back to you, and act like nothing’s ever happened. Well not this time. I’m writing this to tell you that I’m leaving. I’m going to find somebody who will appreciate me all year round. I want to spend my summers going for moonlit walks down the beach, lounging in the sun with a cocktail, and maybe even having the odd dip in the sea (I’ve got my eye on a man with a hairy back). I’d like to say let’s stay in touch, but you’ve made it very clear that I just don’t fit into your naturist lifestyle, so instead I’ll just say farewell. All the best, T-shirt xx

When I was asked to write an article on naturism I immediately ran home, started my laptop up and undressed. After all, I feel it is important to feel at one with your subject. Whilst getting out of your clothes and getting changed into nothing certainly saves time, it’s extremely cold, and does nothing for my modesty. I like naturism. I have always said that if it were socially acceptable, and if everyone else was doing it, I would be nude all the time. It is, however, a hobby best enjoyed with others. You see yourself all the time, and most people have hang ups about their appearance anyway, so in that respect it’s never going to take off. Besides, being a naturist at home is not only boring, it also poses problems. You can’t cook the food you would usually cook. Your clothing prevents your bits from going places gravity takes them. Pulling your undies up after going to the toilet provides closure to the situation, when you’re naked it’s more of an on going project so you have to be 100% sure that you’ve definitely finished. It’s agreed then, that to be a naturist you have to be out of the house and with friends. However, due to the temperature you can only really do it between June and August, and last September when we had those few days which were really hot. Even on these occasions, it’s a gamble. So, I guess it’s in hot climates where it’s a pursuit best pursued. Latino countries, say. That must be why latinos have quite a lot of sex appeal, because the conditions are perfect for nudity, so they just do it all the time because they’re all great friends and weather permits. There’s an elephant in the room, and I’ve just outed it. Naturism, ultimately, is sexy. Even that elephant I just mentioned which you all just imagined is nude - sexy, leathery and tusky. Phwoar. You’re doing it to look at others; it’s like a live art gallery. These are the ramblings of a novice. When I become more practiced, I will have seen it all before and will have invested in mirrored sunglasses. I’ll let you know how I get on. All I have to say about naturism is that it’s fucking odd. They’re never attractive are they, apart from that one girl on that TV program about it. Do you know what I also don’t get about naturists; they don’t play sports like snooker, bloody tennis, jumping around and everything... Naturists are people that like to sleep in the nude. In fact, they like to do most things in the nude, including cooking and taking a bath. Cooking in the nude is dangerous, especially where hot fat is concerned, but wearing an apron is a no-no. Taking a bath in the nude is normal (for both sexes). Walking in a field as nature intended can be considered liberating, but farmers have a tendency to cast quizzical looks and sheep are puzzled that humans have decided not to wear the fleece that they put so much effort into growing.

A Nation of Shopkeepers Words Sophie Benson Photography Stefan Greco This page: Nasir, Whithington Fruit & Veg Opposite: Andrew, Halon Menswear. Overleaf: Brian, Elfin Shoes.

Stefan Greco is a photographer from Shrewsbury, Shropshire. His focus is on fine art photography, incorporating contemporary portraiture and photojournalism. In 2010, Stefan began to explore the subject of the countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s economic downturn of recent years, and how it may have affected the independent traders of his home town. The project also allowed him the opportunity to look into the small businesses that may be under threat of being usurped by the big names that dominate the high street. Although there was certainly a general consensus that a more difficult time was ahead, the businesses

seemed largely unaffected, and the proprietors had faith in the services they were providing and the loyalty of their customers. It is important for people to support their local businesses through economic and social struggles; a supermarket may offer everything under the same roof but they lack the charm and personal touch that a small business provides. Many proprietors work for the love of the job rather than the financial gain and, at the same time, manage to be the heart of an increasingly disjointed community. To some, the local village shop may seem like an old fashioned, romantic idea but as these businesses continue to thrive, it seems we need them as much as they need us. 17

20Christopher

Worker

Josh Neal

Jimmy Rogers

Currentstate

Chantal Mayhew

Rebecca Cox

Simon Wild

PIGEONS ARE THE ALCOHOLICS OF THE BIRD WORLD

Poem Paul Askew Illustration MJ Lomax

Jim was watching as I fumbled with an orange. “This might sound strange,” he said, “But you remind me of a pigeon.” I’d recently cut my fingernails so was having to peel it with my teeth. The pith tasted disgusting. Juice ran down my chin. “When did you last have a shower?,” Jim asked. I couldn’t remember. “Friday, I think,” I lied. “No wonder you look like a tramp and smell like a pigeon.” I threw what remained of my orange at him and got a can of cider out of my bag. “That’s just the sort of thing a pigeon would do,” said Jim.

He snatched the cider out of my hand and threw it up into the top of a tree. He laughed as I climbed up to retrieve it. As I sat in the branches, drinking, I saw him take out some ginger nuts, crush them up and throw them on the ground. A flock of pigeons flew down and started pecking at the crumbs. “Ha ha! Look! They’re just like you! You’re one of them! I always said that pigeons are the alcoholics of the bird world!” I couldn’t be bothered to argue so looked at the sky for a while. Slow moving clouds that changed shape as they drifted, a couple of planes in what seemed like a near miss from a distance. There were no birds. I fell asleep and dreamed about French cuisine.

A l ias Your alias; a side of yourself worth showing. Allow yourself to break out of your shell. _ Fashion Direction Sophie Benson Photography Jennie Sherratt Make Up Ashley Tyrrell Model Marnie Bear

Beaded top | Amanda Brown Dress| Amy Deacon 48 Building print also by Amy Deacon

Blokes Clothes Fashion Direction Sophie Benson Photography Xanthe Hutchinson Make Up Rebecca Anderton Model Kirsty Davies @ Industry People

SPRING FORTH Fashion Director Sophie Benson Photographer Xanthe Hutchinson Hair & Make-up Temi Aboderin Model Richard Michael Hill 58

Opposite: Shirt | MKI Jeans | Topman Accessories | Modelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own This page: Outfit | Jeffrey Smith 63

Fashion Director Sophie Benson Photographer Xanthe Hutchinson Hair & Make-up Temi Aboderin Model Lâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;A Tesha Wilson Visuals Spiros Halaris Title Lee Crutchley 64

10 65

Head in the clouds Fashion Director & Set Design Sophie Benson Photographer Jennie Sherratt Make-up Roseanna Velin Hair Lisa Farrall Model Amy F @ Alpha Agency

Opposite Dress • Never Fully Dressed Shorts • Topshop Shoes (throughout) • modified by Stylist This page Body • RuffleRuffle Skirt • Never Fully Dressed Belt • made by Stylist 75

Opposite Dress • RuffleRuffle Bra Top • Urban Outfitters Belt • Topshop Shoulder piece • made by Stylist This page Jacket • Never Fully Dressed Cropped top • River Island Body • RuffleRuffle Braces • modified by Stylist Belt • vintage 77

This page Jacket • H&M Dress • RuffleRuffle Opposite Cropped top • H&M Skirt • RuffleRuffle 78 Shoulder pieces • made by stylist

Fall into reverie. Fashion Director Sophie Benson Photographer Jamie Cowlishaw Make-up with Hair Paula Maxwell Hair Verity Faichen Model Laura B @ Alpha Agency Photographic Assistant Phoebe Moule

Opening page Dress • RuffleRuffle Scarf • NKOYO Hat • Quaintrelle Necklace • Francine Schokker Bracelet • Saving Face Opposite Dress • Sarika Pancholi Bandeau • Urban Outfitters This page Outfit • RuffleRuffle Shoes • Sarika Pancholi Hat • Quaintrelle Plait bracelet • Francine Schokker Other bracelet • Saving Face 83

Previous page Cropped top • Urban Outfitters Trousers & Shoes • Sarika Pancholi Hat • Quaintrelle Bracelet & knot necklaces • Francine Schokker Leather necklace • Saving Face This spread Scarf (worn as top) • NYOKO Trousers • RuffleRuffle Bag • Sarika Pancholi Necklace • Saving Face Headpiece • Francine Schokker 87

This page Bandeau • Urban Outfitters Dress • Sarika Pancholi Bracelet • Saving Face Bow • NKOYO Opposite Cropped top • Urban Outfitters Hat • Quaintrelle Knot necklaces • Francine Schokker Leather necklace • Saving Face 88

Clémentine Words and Photography Rachael Marian

It’s raining outside. The wind is battering the side of your tent. You can’t remember the last time you felt dry. Mud. Horrible mud. It’s everywhere. Your back hurts because your self-inflating airbed never really inflated. You’re desperate for a cup of tea, but by the time you’ve lit the gas stove and boiled a pan of water, you’d rather have spent £2 at an overpriced burgervan a ten minute walk away. You’re pretending you’re having a great time. Really you’re thinking the ‘fun’ of camping has well and truly gone. You vow you’ll never do it again. Sound familiar? Initially, when my parents first considered the idea of getting a caravan, I couldn’t help but stereotype their desire as a ‘mid-life crisis’. I thought, ‘who needs a caravan when you can experience the great outdoors with little more than a rucksack full of gear and a tent strapped to your back?’ But after a summer of wet festivals, welly blisters, a perpetually aching back, and an underlying feeling of resentment to warm and cosy looking folk in their caravans, I soon came round to the idea! In fact, many people are already embracing the fashionable resurgence of caravans with open arms. Music festivals are testament to the increasing trend to own a caravan, and there is a plethora of online blogs boasting a world of retro-inspired caravans with unusual and quirky interiors. I would like to introduce you to our thirty-year old Eriba Triton caravan, Clémentine. Eriba-Tourer caravans are renowned for their iconic design, superior build and low towing weights – a classic Mini can tow an Eriba Puck. Eribas have captured the hearts of many enthusiasts in a time span of fifty years thanks to their streamline design, compact dimensions, low weight and charming retro look. An old caravan can be recycled, made over and used for endless purposes – an office at home, a studio in the garden, a child’s play house, family holidays and 90

so much more. Caravans give us the opportunity to appreciate and reflect on the valuable details of life that are usually too readily overlooked. They allow us to take time out and enjoy life in the slow lane, all the while creating valuable memories. And unlike camping in a tent, a caravan allows us to enjoy these uncomplicated pleasures without suffering too much either! Styling your caravan doesn’t have to be expensive. There is a world of creativity and design afforded by the humble caravan. You can be creative, indulge your sense of nostalgia, restore something to its former glory, or design a modern version of the original style. Or of course, you can do something totally innovative. It’s easy to make your caravan look attractive with a few simple touches. Turning unexpected or recycled objects into workable features often gives things a new lease of life beyond their intended original use and proves the theory that one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. What’s more, reducing our impact on the planet is now a priority in our lives, and caravanning is no exception. More and more people are realising that caravanning is not only considered ‘cool’ but can also help reduce their global footprint by snubbing overseas holidays in favour of exploring and enjoying the possibilities of their own county. For now ‘Clemmie’, as we fondly call her, plays host to afternoon tea in the garden. With the nights drawing in and evenings getting colder, there is something comforting about piling into the caravan, flicking on the gas heater, and having time away from everyday life. As for Clémentine, we think she’s enjoying her new lease of life. Who knows all the places she’s already seen and we’re excited about taking her on a new journey.

When my cat died a couple of years ago, I was immediately plagued with dreams that borrowed the more unpleasant plot points from Stephen King’s Pet Cemetery, so the thought of getting him gutted, refilled, and then posed for my long term viewing pleasure was not an option I investigated (the fact my mother also opted to have him cremated and then didn’t bother picking up the ashes also put an end to any grandiose dreams of resurrection I might have had).

Words Miriam Sturdee Illustration Lizz Lunney

My father, on the other hand, doesn’t believe in keeping pets so had no preference either way – he loves animals far too much to domesticate them. His one nod toward home-sharing with our furred and feathered friends was to meet a Taxidermist in a pub in the Lake District and share an uncommon desire for a stuffed owl; a barn owl no less. “The trouble is, you see”... said the Taxidermist thoughtfully, “is that you don’t often find – er – roadkill – of that type. Now if you wanted a badger..?” “Oh no, I’ve never fancied a badger... ” (I imagine the conversation was along these lines, and that the Taxidermist had a pipe which he puffed at various intervals). So when the call came some year or so later, he was only too delighted to learn that the Taxidermist had ‘come across’ an owl: only tawny, sadly, but the fellow set about creating the world’s best behaved lounge-based nocturnal bird. He opted to have the poor thing postured with wings outspread and then mounted on a wooden board. Later on, my father wedged the abomination at a jaunty angle between the bannisters in his living room, amongst the leaves of a climbing house plant so that the static owl lurches dramatically out at unsuspecting visitors. At the Pitt Rivers museum in the studious city of Oxford, you are allowed to ‘pet’ some of the stuffed animals. Notably there is a cheetah which has a kind of crunchy feel to it and is in need of a good spray of Febreze and some Lenor. Still it is better than the oft-times rug-based fate of the big cats. But conversely, would we stuff a cow and invite our friend’s children around to sit on it and pose for photographs? I might be onto something here... The artist Charles Avery dabbled with taxidermy in his The Islanders installation, where he attached the head of a large bird to the body of a dog and gave it turkey feet. Damien Hirst also enjoyed a brief stint getting animals half dismembered and pickled (to great acclaim and consternation) – so is my misguided father to be applauded as a proponent of a revival of this Victorianesque art? 95

Rebirth of the Pop-up Cinema Words Sam Groves Illustration Tom Camp It seems cinema has finally gone full circle. When ‘living pictures’ (as films were known back then) first startled human eyes, there wasn’t a so-called home for them, what we now know as the cinema. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, maverick showmen carted travelling picture houses around from city to city. This went on for ten years or so, and then designated buildings such as the picture palaces and the cinemas came along and stopped all that pop-up nonsense. A hundred years later, pop-ups are back, with a vengeance. Pop-up cinemas and screenings are happening all over the country, and have been for some time now. Leading the way is the ubiquitous Secret Cinema. This team are behind Future Cinema and Future Shorts; they are an organisation that seem to grow with each event. I’ve recently bought tickets for one of their upcoming screenings (I can’t tell you what the film is because you don’t find out until you’re there). All but two of the fourty-four screenings are sold out. Secret Cinema mixes interactive theatre and film, showing films in all manner of places, including parks, warehouses, and opera houses to name a few. Their most recent escapade was a screening of both Tony Scott’s 80s homoerotic classic Top Gun, and Joel Schumacher’s popular hit of the same decade The Lost Boys, alongside the river Thames, with the area transformed into the ‘sunny shores of California’. With standard tickets fetching over £25 (bearing in mind, most of the audience will no doubt have seen the films previously) and around 8,000 people buying them; Secret Cinema must be doing something right. Not bad going for an organisation whose motto is ‘Tell No One’. Film clubs, societies, and festivals are constantly thinking of new ways to entice audiences, be it stick a projector and a screen in a church, build a makeshift cinema in a disused petrol station, or – my favourite – a cinema in the gap between the East and Westbound traffic of the A12 in London (search Folly For a Flyover in google and marvel). Branchage Film Festival turned a tugboat into a cinema for a one-off screening of Battleship Potemkin, the team behind Birmingham’s Flatpack Festival turned a car park into a post-apocalyptic walk-in cinema for a screening of Miracle Mile, and the ever-improving Reykjavík International

Film Festival regularly has screenings in swimming pools which leads me to the question; at what point do people start saying to each other, “this is kind of fun, but I actually like to keep my exercise and my film-watching experiences as two separate entities”? For me, pop-up cinemas need to be more than ‘novel’; they need to be intimate, personable, they need to have soul, but most importantly they need to have the integrity and the showmanship that the mavericks had back in the early part of the last century. Everything should be considered to the most minute of details. The film-going experiences I’ve had outside of the cinema have been some of the most gloriously engaging cinematic experiences I’ve ever encountered. I love the counter-reaction to the blandness and repetitious experience of multiplex film-viewing that pop-ups bring. We live in an era where people desire gratification instantaneously, and if it’s not coming from the film itself, it needs to come from the environment in which the audience is watching the film. Screen a good film and you’re already on the right track. Pop-ups are here to stay. No doubt exhibitors will continue to explore new ways of innovating film exhibition, and I’m sure audiences will continue to flock to these screenings in bus stops, rooftops, and possibly even once again on mountains of discarded fridges, as seen before. In spite of all this, there will always be a place for a darkened auditorium, with tiered comfortable seating, and HD projection. Not forgetting the allure of the back row in a cinema; where else are teenagers going to have that first snog and a fumble? A good pop-up cinema should strive for that sense of communal experience which, a long time ago, cinema used to strive for, but somehow, like the boys in Joel Schumacher’s film, got slightly lost along the way. Sam is the founder of KINO 10, a peripatetic moving image exhibition project. KINO 10 creates unique atmospheres and an alternative filmic experiences through specially-curated programming and screening in unusual places | www.kino10.com

The secret desires within us always begin with a place Words Caroline Simpson Illustration Pippa Stewart

Somewhere between exams and proper jobs we all seem to become bogged down with thoughts of fixedrate mortgages, gas and electricity bills and renting versus buying. Before that, our young minds were free to explore the possibilities of what having a place of our own could mean, and the adventures that would happen when we finally got there. With little doubt in my mind that I would someday be a multi-zillionaire, the only conceivable place to house all of my money and me, would be a mansion. A residence so large it would be impossible to see one side from the other, which could house my mother at one end and my father at the other, and they would never even know it, much less have to speak to one another. Window upon window all standing uniformly in line, guarding against the outside world, yet at the same time allowing the best view of it money could buy. Storey upon storey, corridor after corridor, visitors would need a map just to navigate the first floor. The ensuite bathrooms would have ensuite bathrooms and there could be any room that the mind desired. A chocolate room? Why not. A bowling alley? Of course! An ice skating rink? Well, it would be silly not to have one. A place literally built from dreams, inviting the imagination to unleash its desires, the mansion is the kind of house that we actually let ourselves believe we can still own one day, even though we should know better; this is the embodiment of a winning lottery ticket. For little girls everywhere it is a resolutely accepted fact that castles are homes for princesses playing out their happily-ever-after with a dashing prince. A wicked queen or an ugly stepsister may be thrown in there for good measure just to keep them on their toes, but that only makes the ever after that much sweeter when it arrives. A majestic place with uneven turrets, thick grey stone crumbling away, yet somehow adding to its appeal, and at its forefront a cavernous archway just waiting to open its doors to the magic within. Its immaculate symmetry and precise detail silently screaming with tales of wonder and woe, of bravery and boldness. Far from impeccable but reeking with adventure, even as a pink and frilly blonde locked girlie girl, the idea of a tree house was too tempting for me to resist. A self-made treasure, it wouldn’t matter how haphazard the finish, nothing spoke of independent escapades more than a design of my own creation sitting among the heights of some of nature’s oldest friends with a view of the stars and only the scuttling

squirrels and whistling birds for company. A tree house will always have a back-story brimming with excitement and danger. Just ask Swiss Family Robinson, who were tossed onto a deserted island after a shipwreck and forced to create their own living quarters from the remains. The result? One of the most imaginative and ingenious homes in human existence, designed from the heart with both desperation and creativity in equal measure. Across the ocean, perched high atop chalky grey cliffs affording a view as far as the eye can see, with raging seas crashing like thunder, and a deep underwater world floating within easy reach, yet hidden from the unseeing eye, the human mind can only guess at the mystery and peril that a lighthouse views every night. Brightly coloured metallic fish twisting and turning in the azure water. Mermaids with wafting hair like liquid amber flipping their fins amongst the speckled shells and neon coral. And in the distance, the sounds of pirates cackling whilst gleefully rubbing their hands together and flinging mountains of gold in the air. The intermittent beams from the striped exterior highlight glimpses of these strange goings-on, but never for long enough to make them entirely real. Even the most exciting exploits have a time and a place. Sometimes the most enticing thing is the safe realisation of a place where it seems not much happens at all, but where looks can be deceiving. Small but perfectly formed, with a quaint thatched roof, pastel coloured shutters to the windows and a manicured front lawn, the cartoon-ish features of a countryside cottage set deep in the middle of nowhere come straight out of a storybook. After a near fatal encounter Snow White found seven little men hiding away in a cottage and subsequently met her Prince Charming. The Three Bears weren’t quite so lucky however, returning home to find that a golden haired girl had trashed the place and eaten all their food, while Little Red Riding Hood discovered a rogue wolf masquerading as her beloved Grandmother. A house is essentially bricks and mortar put together in a structured manner with deep-set foundations. But a home is where all desires live and your story can really begin, and it doesn’t need to be a fairy tale to make it worth telling. 99

Ground control to Major Tom

Words Kate Pearson Illustration Tom Camp Dreams and fantasies are some of the greatest tools at human disposal. Whether we are asleep, bored, upset or lost, our minds can take us places we never knew existed and give us adventure that makes the blood pump through our veins with such force we almost believe we are genuinely flying into outer space. With such a powerful tool at our everyday disposal, humans have created masterpieces that have changed the world, found solutions that have saved lives and built satellites that can send us pictures of the unknown. The most beautiful thing about this power is that everyone has it, it isn’t reserved for the rich and famous; we all have the ability to dream... My hands shook as I sat in the only terminal in the spaceport, waiting for the signal to board the ship. It was my first time to leave the planet, unlike my fellow crew, who had travelled many times. All I could think about was how white everything looked. White seats, white floor, white walls… I guess they were really going for the “spacey” vibe. I don’t know what I was expecting about it all, a sense of exploration definitely, patriotism perhaps, maybe it was just my desperate need for adventure. I looked across at a man with very squeaky shoes who was making his way towards me, his white smile beaming out like an alien spaceship ready to suck me aboard. It was now or never... When we are young our fresh, free minds can turn almost anything into a character. Leaves become mermaids, sheds become castles, carpet becomes scorching hot lava where only the sofas are safe. For most of us it is the only time in which we are free to act out any fantasy we please, without the pressures of social conduct or fear of judgment holding us back. It is our way of escaping our day to day lives. Perhaps when we are children we can see more clearly that it’s all pretty dull, so we spice it up, but the older we get the more wrapped up in the boring nonsense we become, and we forget our ability to let go and dream. The creativity of dreaming can relieve stress, put things into priority, and even improve our real lives with having a way of expressing ourselves. Our mind is the most complex and creative part of our world and we should honour it by unleashing its full potential, for ourselves if not anyone else. The man with the squeaky shoes lead me into a side room which had a huge white padded spacesuit hung up on one wall and an aerial picture of the earth on another. I had been wearing a similar suit everyday for the past few months in training, and now was the last time I would see it until I was floating in front of the planet, relying on it to keep me alive. He went over the essentials with me one last time, and then walked me through another door into what appeared to be a lounge area, complete with buffet table and a television. The rest of the crew were in there chatting and laughing as if it was just another day at the office, while I suddenly questioned what the hell I was doing. They greeted me and gave me reassuring

pats on the back, laughing as my face turned slowly green, and suggested that we made a move (as if we were embarking on a road trip to the beach). I noticed everyone was heading towards the exits that lead to the ship and that for some strange reason my legs had decided to follow, as if they were saying “come on now, pull yourself together and get on with it”. I tried to slow my breathing as we walked out the door towards our destiny. One of the biggest values of dreaming is the sense of escapism that we get, leaving behind the trials and tribulations of everyday life for something that seems much better. What’s also valuable is the compassionate nature of humans who wish to share their dreams with others and invite them to retreat into their world. Novelists, movie producers, musicians and artist all create worlds that they have envisioned that are free for anyone to escape into when need be. Curling up with a great book or settling down to watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy are wonderful privileges which we are welcome to at any time, especially now with advancing technology. Flick to the movie channel and there in front of you are entire universes that were once just fantasies inside someone’s head. However, because so many dreams are now thrust into our face with every blockbuster hit, we must always remember to retreat back into our own world from time to time. Pick up your air guitars and be the rock star you always wanted, grab your sword and slay the dragon, climb back on your horse and rustle up the bank thief in the Wild, Wild West. Your dreams are where you can be free to be anything and that is the greatest power of all. There it was, right in front of me. Not a simulator, not a picture, the real deal. The rocket, with its gleaming shine and sleek design ready to blast me and the crew into outer space, a shuttle that could quite literally take me to the moon and back without a second thought. The complete awe that overtook my brain numbed all other emotion as I climbed aboard and strapped myself in. I was surrounded by so many knobs and buttons and flashing lights that I had been ruthlessly learning about for the past year. All that training and it was finally happening… Space, I was going to space. The crew had calmed down now as if they too began feeling the nerves and the seriousness of what we were doing. We ran through the take off procedure like robots, nothing going wrong, working as a team like a well oiled machine. The engine started with so much force it could be seen for miles around, pushing us off the ground and finally sending us to our desired destination... I don’t think I breathed again until it was safe to be out of my seat and floating around the cabin. It was unbelievable, nothing I had ever experienced or could even fully comprehend, no matter how much training I had been through. I looked out the window and saw it, Earth, perfectly poised in its orbit shining like a beautiful beacon of hope and life and home. I had done it, I had fulfilled my dream. I was an astronaut.

The Feather Words and Illustration Lee Crutchley

Every day I wake up at the same time. I put on the same colour suit and get on the same bus which drops me outside the same building. I always arrive 15 minutes early and leave 30 minutes late. I sit in the same chair and eat my lunch at the same time, and I try to sell people the same overpriced diet supplements using the same script. The only thing that’s different is the people I call, although most of them say the same thing. “Not interested”.

that’s a lot to ask coming from a stranger, but I’m here to help you. We are here to help you. In around 30 seconds I will hang up this call. As soon as I do you must look out of the window. Your answer is out there. It was meant to be with you sooner. We know you’ve needed it for some time now. We are sorry for the delay, it couldn’t be helped. We needed the time. But now we are ready. Are you?”

Is anyone interested?

My headset clicks with the sound of slightly obscure rejection.

Even the view from the window doesn’t change. Twenty storeys up the only thing that changes is the colour of the sky. Today my window is a solid panel of bright grey. Those two words seem like they don’t belong together. Maybe it’s white not grey. It’s bright, that’s all I know. The more I look at it the brighter it gets, I’m not even sure if it’s really the sky anymore. It seems to be throbbing or pulsating or, maybe that’s my eyes.

How long would it take to fall 20 storeys? Inhale. “Hello Mrs Yelavich. My name’s Tom and I’m calling on behalf of VitaFit. You recently expressed…” “Tom. I don’t have time to explain fully. But you must listen to me. You have to trust me. I know

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Exhale. As I turn to my right the window is split by a crack of bright red. Blood seeping from freshly cut skin. The wound seems to close behind itself, is it healing? My eyes focus and the red smear becomes a red object. A feather, falling slowly. This is how I imagine a ballerina would fall. As the feather spins and dances downwards I notice there are some letters on the back of it. Someone has written something. It must be the answer the woman on the phone had spoken about.

So what was the question? I don’t know but I need to. I have to catch it. The windows in our building don’t open for “safety”; I have to get down to the street. I sprint down

ten flights of stairs taking them two at a time. I burst into the office that’s on the same side of the building, just in time to see the feather pirouette out of view.

Do you know that in a vacuum a feather and a person would fall at exactly the same speed? I run back to the stairwell and practically leap down the next ten flights. “Fat Bob” the security guard doesn’t even flinch as I burst past him and out onto the street. It’s so cold out here, and so bright. Too bright. My burning eyes are forced to squint, trying to filter the light. There’s noise too, so much of it. It floods into my ears; I can barely make out any of the sounds. My ears are filled with noise, overflowing.

Was it always like this? I look up and see the feather falling towards me. A single snowflake drenched in blood. I take my hands away from my ears and cup them in front of me. The feather floats softly down and rests in them. It feels heavy; my hands are pulled shut around it. Colour starts to drain from me, from the ground beneath me, from everything. My eyes lose all focus. The blurred colourful movements turn to blurred monochrome stillness. Everything is paused and grey. The sound is sucked away from my ears. No more traffic, no more people, no more birds.

You wouldn’t even hear a pin drop.

When was the last time you heard silence? My whole body feels stiff. My hands lock together tightly and my whole weight sinks to my feet. My feet begin to sink into the ground. I need to get inside. I raise my hands slightly in front of me. A red glow begins to escape through my fingers. My hands begin to pull at the rest of my body and my feet start to drag through the concrete. It churns up behind me. Freshly ploughed mud.

Am I walking? The doors slide apart as I finally reach them. I crumble through them into a heap on the floor. I lay on my side and the weight starts to shift towards my head. My eyes regain focus and my hands regain feeling. As I start to prise them apart colour flows back into my eyes, sound starts to leak into my ears. As I lay there with my hands fully open everything is moving again. Everything in colour. And there it is. The feather.

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Vibes & Creative Tribes Words Sarah Seaton (MHVH) Illustration Claire Hartley

As the young girl gazes into the mirror singing into her hair brush and the five kids in their parent’s garages ambitiously thrash at their instruments – what is it they desire? In the digital age there is much more to consider than simply if you can sing or play. With burgeoning music sales, labels and consumers alike are looking for more. Labels want stronger assurances that you’re going to make them money, and your audience want a piece of your soul. In the changing world of music, whether our ambitions lie in writing, illustrating or playing bass guitar, we now have to think about what it is that we stand for and who we stand with. Today more importance lies in the community that builds around us. You’re not just a band anymore you’re part of a creative tribe. The relationship between musicians and their communities can be a difficult one to define. Very often the melody makers and songwriters that I meet are loners, and seek the quietness of their own minds to create their sound. With the music machine’s cogs in motion, it is a degree of selfefficacy that most musicians possess, along with a true talent that results in the natural gravitation of people towards them, creating a group of ‘fans’. As a consumer however, I find it a thrill when I fall in love with a band or artist to realise I’m one of the few who has discovered their talent at that point. It’s like finding hidden treasure. Equally it’s great when you can share these gems with a group of your friends and it’s then the desire of the labels to find this counter culture and exploit it. Speak to any musician and I think you will recognise a similar trait in all of them, an addiction to making connections (though don’t misjudge this as a desire to please). In any artistic realm, the people that surround an artist are a major factor in their growth. Their relationship with the audience stimulates their research and the connections with them get ever stronger. Their fans are feeling the vibe and so the concept is being lived through them, giving it definition. This immediate group of friends, family and acquaintances have all 104

made multiple connections and are resourceful and abundant with ideas. They become part of the musician’s journey. As artists you are also philanthropists so this group become the muses as the observers become the observed. But who is this ‘community’? They are the people that have made a connection on some level, that have passion and understand working as a unit is fundamental for the successes of all involved. Though I speak of a creative tribe, please don’t make the assumption that this group is limited to those working in the creative industries. Imagine an event at your local boozer… The pub manager shares his venue to the crowds, the promoter effortlessly flyers his city to let the world know who is playing and the audience (from bin men to lawyers) pay their tickets and drink the bar dry. Meanwhile there’s a girl singing on stage, delivering a gorgeous, intimate performance making the roomful of punters jaws drop. Each individual binds together creating a force. When that young girl wants to promote her verses, it’s the role of the videographer to portray her on screen, the DJ’s to play her single and the writers to blog about her sound. So as all eyes are on this fresh new talent she represents every one of those individuals that got her to where she is. The internet’s multiple digital platforms have only maximised on this and created the globalisation of music, allowing millions more of these ‘connections’ to occur. The little suburb that is home to ‘Jim’s new band’ has the potential to become a global village attracting hungry eyes from all over the world. Craving to be part of something is not found solely in the world of music. The desire to affiliate ourselves with others is inherent to our humanity and our shared interests act as the glue. Whatever passion we have, in whichever culture we stand, we must give deeper consideration to our role. The survival and growth of the best ideas come from both ourselves and the people that surround us.

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Good As New Words Laura Booth Illustration Lucy Driscoll

Ask your mother or grandmother, and they will no doubt tell you stories of how they would turn rags, or an old pair of curtains, into an amazing dress with a quick run of the sewing machine. Even old jars were turned into beautiful storage, often filled with goodies and given as gifts. The ‘make-do and mend’ attitude of upcycling goes one step further than the more recognisable term of recycling. Upcycling has become a fashionable way to create unique items. If you’re not already doing it, you might soon be experiencing upcycling yourself; noting tips to tell the next generation. After all, one man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure.

The interior of Yellowstone Art Boutique, based at Trentham Gardens, is entirely upcycled; experimenting with the function of items to create a unique environment that suits the handmade work on sale. Jewellery is hung from vintage cotton reels screwed into old placements, prints are stacked on a stepladder, cake stands display small work, and a wooden clotheshorse holds various different wrapping paper. Hannah Stoney, printmaker, and owner of Yellowstone, recognises that once upon a time upcycling was a necessity. Hand-me-downs were

sometimes a source of embarrassment. Fashion has changed, and vintage is still a huge trend, which has helped banish the labels of class and wealth. Hannah sees all types of people favouring upcycling as being creative and craftiness is now a sought after talent. Lots of Yellowstone customers have found inspiration to try things out themselves. Giving customers this confidence to be creative is a great privilege for Hannah and her staff. Creative workshops are available throughout the country, and their popularity is increasing as customers dream of ‘doing it themselves’. Upcycling artist Jennifer Collier hosts a wide variety of workshops at her gallery, Unit Twelve, based in Stafford. The most popular workshops are ‘Experimental Techniques’ and ‘Paper Shoes’, which demonstrate many different ideas that participants can push forward to create their own unique items. High demand has also led to workshops focusing on embroidery, recycled jewellery and upcycled ceramics. Jennifer recognises that “even if the audience cannot afford to buy craft, they see the value in spending money on skills for life. In the workshops I run, I teach the value of learning a new skill, making it your own and pushing the boundaries of what can be done with that technique. You should strive to make work that is your own – innovate, don’t imitate. Don’t be afraid to have happy accidents and spend time playing with materials, as this is when you discover something truly unique.” Of course, upcycling isn’t just about learning a new skill or buying something beautiful, it is also a very eco-friendly method. It is no wonder upcycling is increasingly popular as people work hard to ensure they are environmentally responsible. Jennifer focuses on creating work from found paper, treating it as cloth and allowing that to be the main inspiration. “When I started creating work using found and recycled materials over 12 years ago, it was because I couldn’t afford new materials, rather than purely being an ethical choice – recycling wasn’t the norm. As time has gone on this has become a very important niche to sit in, so much so that it is no longer a niche; people expect the materials to be sourced responsibly.” Jennifer would rather take time to play with different craft techniques rather than throw something with potential away. “I often have some things for years before I thing what to do with it, or am ‘brave’ enough to use it, as I don’t want to waste it.” This

practice allows something unloved to become beautiful and cherished once again. There is a very similar ethos at The Peanut Gallery in Congleton. Cheryl Smith recognises that they are like magpies, gathering materials and objects they discover on a day-to-day basis. “We breathe new life in to our findings, creating desirable, handmade and contemporary pieces… Mass consumerism has resulted in many objects being designed to throw away; there is little encouragement to enjoy their material being. The Peanut Gallery prides itself on providing creative opportunities for all, with affordable workshops on art and contemporary craft so that everyone can surround themselves with unique pieces.” It is not surprising that in a time of recession people are turning to products that hold a comforting, nostalgic feel, utilising vintage fabrics and techniques. Craft groups and workshops offer a forum for people to learn and share together, which is increasingly important. For the trend of upcycling to stand the test of time, it needs to offer contemporary styles; a good reminder of this is the brand Love Me Again. Based in Manchester, Love Me Again sells clothing made entirely from upcycled materials but there isn’t a hint of vintage style. Tracey Cliffe, the designer, works mainly with knitwear, jersey and cotton shirts that are found in abundance, allowing her to replicate designs as well as creating oneoffs. Tracey commented: “Quite often people don’t realise my designs are made from recycled textiles, which is both good and frustrating. I want people to know as it’s important, but when people don’t realise, it means I’ve done a good job. Some retailers get confused and are put off when I explain that not each dress will be exactly the same. With a tight budget it’s very hard to compete with cheap fast fashion retailers.” Tracey is keen to monitor the effect that the recession has on upcycling, and whether, as the economic situation improves, people just won’t find the time for upcycling if they have jobs, and subsequently, more money. Let’s hope people remember that upcycled items are good as new…if not better.

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Wishful thinking Words Olivia Smith Nicholls Illustration Ed J Brown Light from the street lamps danced on the water creating a dizzying effect as she waited for the boat to arrive. She looked down at her shoes, the best pair she could find, black patent with a fairly large heel. On second thoughts, not very practical for travelling around a city that involved so much water transportation. She wanted to make an effort though. She wore a white sun dress covered with pink and orange flower prints; it seemed a little too bright for the evening, and it was not as warm as it had been in the afternoon. She pulled her cardigan around her, grateful for the extra material. It was approaching eleven o’clock, she could tell by the scent of the night, enticing her. He would be waiting for her outside San Zaccaria. When she had asked why he wanted to meet there, he had simply said, “It is very old”. As the boat approached, she pondered why she trusted him implicitly despite barely knowing him. She considered it had to be his eyes; they sparkled. The boat wasn’t terribly busy, given the time, so she had a good choice of seats. She chose one near the front of the boat, sacrificing the shelter of a roof for the opportunity to view her journey in detail. The dull hum of the boat’s engine soothed her as they coasted steadily along. She looked out into the water, realising they were once again approaching land. Wooden poles stuck out of the water like giant nails, each with a gondola attached, bobbing patiently in the inky water. She surveyed their angular shape, noting the stripes of colour painted on some of 108 them as the boat’s lights shone in the direction of the

shore. A small thud, and the boat came to a stand still and she hopped out carefully, not wishing to scuff her shoes. Walking briskly away from the shore, she was surprised to see barely anyone around, save for a elderly woman dressed rather eccentrically in a full length white fur coat; an unusual choice for summer time. She also noticed the woman had extremely rosy cheeks, and in her right hand she clutched a shimmering blue mask. Every building she passed looked a little lonely with its shutters closed for the night. Ahead of her she saw a small marble fountain, it stood out amongst the terracotta coloured buildings with their sloping brown roofs. As she approached the fountain she looked up and was faced with the impressive Gothic architecture of San Zaccaria, ghostly white in the moonlight. He was there, leaning against one of the pillars of the cavernous doorway. She felt her heart beat in her throat as his eyes met hers. “Have you been waiting long?” Ignoring her question, he began walking briskly in the opposite direction to which she had come. She looked at his face intently, he smirked as her heels clicked along the pavement as she sped up to keep pace. She knew there was no point in asking their destination, he had a look of determination on his face. Within a few minutes they approached a small bridge, as she gazed up at the houses above, with fresh yellow walls and intricately designed wrought iron balconies, she didn’t notice him tearing the blue waterproof cover off a

gondola below. Before she could ask what he thought he was doing he simply said, “we shall borrow it.” She found herself nodding and taking his hand to assist her in getting into the gondola. He kissed her hand before he let go of it, it was unexpected and she jumped as if she had been given an electric shock. He grinned and picked up the oar. She sat back as they passed under the bridge and on into the darkness. As they passed a row of red brick buildings, which were charmingly dilapidated, she wondered what it would be like looking out onto the water every morning. Ahead were some taller, white washed buildings with beautiful purple flowers on each balcony. He tied the gondola to the white and blue pole just outside the building, next to another bridge. When they were firmly back on land he reached into his jacket and, to her surprise, pulled out a red mask and placed it in her hands. It was Venetian in style and he produced a green one for himself. “What are these for?”. “Follow me, it’s already started”. She was curious to know what this meant, but she was not in the dark for long, quite literally in fact. When they turned the corner she knew straight away that they were in Piazza San Marco. It was completely different to how it had been

when she visited it during the day. It was filled with the cheery sound of people, but so unlike the waspish buzz of tourists. The whole square was bathed in the warm glow of Chinese lanterns in various colours, suspended on strings from the surrounding buildings and attached to tables that groups of brightly dressed people were seated at, wearing Venetian masks and drinking from champagne flutes. She gasped, behind the tables was a small orchestra. She had been so taken in by the surroundings she had barely heard the music. Now that she did, she realised the large group of party goers beyond the tables were dancing. As if he could read her mind, he took her hand and lead her towards the crowd. They spun around at a dizzying speed, she stared up at the lantern lights and the stars above feeling disorientated. She felt like she was watching in slow motion as they got peeled apart and pulled in separate directions by the crowd. She cried out in alarm, but it was drowned out by the music and laughing. As she looked around frantically, she saw something out of the corner of her eye and felt a jolt in her stomach. He was disappearing at speed in the direction of the gondola. By his side, she could just see before they turned the corner, a girl with dark hair, her hand in his.

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FEATURE: DETAILS

FAKE took to the streets of Leeds in search of style with a little more substance. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easy to take things at face value but if you take the time to look closer, you may start to see things in a different light. A badge or a button can sometimes tell more of a story than a whole outfit. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all in the details.

Words Sophie Benson Photography Kerry Leslie

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FEATURE: FAKING IT Words Sophie Benson Photography Sam FW

The a/w â&#x20AC;&#x2122;11 trends of polka dots and cut-outs inspired FAKE for this 2-in-1 design. What you need: A pair of leggings, a t-shirt, scissors, a sheet of card, a pen or pencil, a mug and a needle and thread or fabric glue. This process can be used for all sorts of garments, so use your imagination to breathe new life into your basics. What to do: First, draw around the bottom of a mug to create a circle template then cut it out. Next, using the template as a guide, carefully cut circles out of the leggings. Try not to be too uniform with your placement. Finally, use these left over fabric circles as the polka dots for your t-shirt. You can attach them using a running stitch or, alternatively, you can use fabric glue to secure them. Here, the leggings have been layered over tights to create a two-tone effect. The t-shirt has been teamed with yet more polka dots but, equally, you could tone the look down with a simple skirt or trousers.

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FEATURE: A different take on ‘fake’? Words and Illustration Lee Crutchley

Dear Mom, if for some reason you’re reading this, please remember it’s just a story. Honestly. Love, Lee. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried running away from the police in fake, £10 one-size-too-big-so-you-grow-intothem Rockport boots that your mom bought you from Brownhills Market—but my advice is to never try it. I was well into my career as a school truant by the time I had to. The first few times I skipped school I used the standard fake-an-illness method. But eventually I’d listed so many conditions that I was starting to run out of illnesses I actually knew. The day I tried to stay at home because of “period pain” finally pushed my mom over the edge. She sent me to school and told me that the next time I said I was ill, my arm had better be hanging off. To this day, that still seems a little harsh. The trouble was the older I got, the more pointless school seemed. This growing feeling that I’d learned all I needed to in school hit me the hardest in swimming. I’d always hated it, but after almost drowning several times I’d managed to get both my red (5m) and green (25m) badges. For me, that was more than enough. I figured if I couldn’t reach safety within 25 metres of swimming I was pretty much dead anyway. There were only a few swimming lessons left, so I thought I’d just opt out of the rest of the badges and really perfect my 25 metres. Mr Kasperowich however, had other ideas: “Those of you who got your green badge this week, well done. Next week you’ll need to bring some pyjamas to practice for the next badge.” Pyjamas? I’d seen other kids doing this. You had to swim a million lengths in your pyjamas, and then rescue a black rubber brick from the bottom of the deep end. It was ridiculous. There was no way I was ever going to fall into water further than 25 metres from land in my pyjamas, and I certainly wouldn’t have a black rubber brick with me if I did. I was 100% sure of this. I needed a new way to skip school, and fast. Through a weird coincidence (opening my first bank account) I noticed that my handwriting and signature were almost exactly the same as my mom’s, and a note from your mom was pretty much all you needed for a legitimate day off school. I was sure I could produce an almostundetectable forgery of a Susan Crutchley sick note. I did. 116

I successfully skipped school using forged notes quite a few times. I found out that the kids who “wagged it” generally hid at the cricket pitch. So that’s where I went too. You had to walk towards the school to get there and it was completely covered by thick trees. If it hadn’t been only 20 metres from the school gates it would have been the perfect spot. You can’t have everything, though. On the day of the last swimming lesson, before we switched back to football, I took my usual dive into the cricket pitch. I was lying on the grass reading my comic, and laughing at the fact that everyone was just about to get into the pool, when I saw some rustling in the trees at the far end of the pitch. I assumed it would be some other kid who’d ditched school too. But, when the figure pushed its way through the trees and out into the open, I saw that it was a policeman. He stood up, looked around the pitch, and then straight at me. I didn’t have time to think if he was there for me or not. He was still a good distance away, so I ran. It was a 5-minute walk back to my house, but between taking a more sheltered route, and wearing those boots, it turned into a 20 minute run. I didn’t look back— if the cop got a good look at my face, I was done for. I just ran and ran and ran! As I rounded the corner into my street I slid to a halt and tried to get my breath back. The second I opened the door, my mom pounced. “What are you doing home?” “I’m really ill mom, I feel so bad. I had to leave.” She felt my forehead. “Wow, you’re really burning up! You should go up to bed and lie down. Did you tell the teacher?” “No, I felt too sick. I just wanted to get home.” “Okay son, I’ll write you a note for tomorrow.” As I lay in bed feeling genuinely sick, I promised never to fake my mom’s signature again. But I was never really a fan of athletics, either.

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FEATURE: A different take on ‘fake’? Words Michael Pope-Presley Illustration Holly Trill

Some people say that being fake is a bad thing. These people are often wrong. For example, if you are a magazine, then I think we can all agree that being FAKE is a good thing.

The situation is different if you are a chocolate bar, in which case you should really be aiming to be a Flake. These are tasty and crumbly, although being crumbly is not all that it’s cracked up to be, unless you are one of a number of cheeses for which this characteristic is essential to your identity. Anyway, I digress; the point is that sometimes it’s good to be fake. For example, plastic fruit, whilst lacking somewhat in the taste department, maintains its colour with long-lasting ease, putting its natural counterparts to shame. Even in the realm of taste, the fake fruit has a strong argument for superiority: I know which banana I’d rather eat after it had sat on a sunny mantelpiece for six months. Also, I once saw a plastic pear, which on closer inspection revealed itself to be a maraca (true story). What other items support this theory? Fake moustaches are pretty cool and have been integral to the solving of many crimes of international import – just ask those involved in detective work. Now, imagine an Inspector Clouseau lookalike playing pear-shaped maracas, and you’ll get an idea of what I’m talking about. What could be better? How’s about an Inspector Clouseau lookalike playing pear-shaped maracas and demurely displaying the ample cleavage of his newly implanted fake boobs? No, that would just be strange and disturbing, so we shall erase that image from our minds FOREVER. An altogether more pleasing thought is that of an Inspector Clouseau lookalike playing pear-shaped maracas and showing off his (or her, let’s be clear that women can look like Belgian detectives too) fake tan. That’s both entertaining and healthy. If the fake tan had been bought with a fake credit card, all the better, as everyone likes free money. In the real world, I know for a fact that you can save up to one third on L’Oréal Sublime Bronze self tan from Boots at the moment*. Also in the real world, if shop assistants are giving you jip about your suspicious card number (I used 1234 1234 1234 1234 – mistake) then counterfeit pound notes can easily be made using modern colour photocopiers**. In order to replicate the tricky hologram bit, a combination of basic kitchen

tin foil and laser etching is effective. If a working photocopier is unavailable then pseudo pound coins can be produced, but, admittedly, it can be quite a challenge to find the requisite amount of gold. In situations where gold is scarce a notable and popular fake solution awaits: pyrite (aka fool’s gold).

If your local mineral shop is out of pyrite then tiddlywinks sprayed with metallic paint are passable, but only if used in dark environments. Other useful phony items include wigs (pretend hair, for coping with disappointing haircuts), false nails (for hiding one of the effects of a nervous disposition and good for rock climbing if attached with super glue) and forgeries of masterworks (for brightening up the sitting room). Of those three, you are least likely to find the latter on your high street, but don’t let that put you off - I once financed a superb two-month holiday in The Greater Antilles off the back of a particularly pleasing resale of a replica of Bruegel The Elder’s The Triumph Of Death to a charming Gothic couple; I was saddened to see it go but it clashed with my new armchair. Being fake can also be a lifesaver – just ask my mate Dmitri who, rather stupidly, agreed to purchase a pouch of “Devil’s Dandruff” from an unsavoury character down the boozer because he felt embarrassed about not knowing what it was. Luckily it turned out to be nothing more than sherbet from a Dip-Dab and he got away with a four-hour sneezing fit and foaming nostrils, but if the powder had been pukka, a spiraling existence of guilt and dependency would have awaited. Actually, thinking about it (and I have been thinking about it, believe me!), a fake version of anything dangerous has got to be better then the hazardous thing itself: toy guns have maimed (or worse) far fewer people than have real ones and inflatable crocodiles have eaten far fewer people than have actual members of the family Crocodylidae. So, in conclusion, there’s a lot to be said for being fake. Whether it’s in your accent (when pretending to be someone from a different region), your smile (false teeth) or walk (false leg(s)), being fake is a part of all of us (especially if you do actually have the need to disguise your origins, sport false teeth or wear a false leg or two) and should be embraced. A life of fakery is not the sham existence that some would lead us to believe, in fact, being fake is unarguably beneficial and indispensible to an understanding of the true nature of the world. I think.

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CREDITS: In order of appearance Editors note & introductory pages Abigail Hutton illustration (001) Ghostbikes (001) Words Kerry Leslie, Illustration Rebecca Abell It’s all around you (004) Andy Reeve words & photography (004) with Considerate Trespassing photography. Supermarket Stitch (003) Holly Levell felt sculptures, words Kerry Leslie & Sophie Benson, with Sophie Benson photography. Doppelganger (002) Words Mathew Leslie Frost, illustration Lee Crutchley.

Fall into reverie (004) Photographer Jamie Cowlishaw Make-up Paula Maxwell Hair Verity Faichen Model Laura B @ Alpha Agency Assistant Phoebe Moule Clementine (004) Words and photography Rachael Marian Circle of Life (004) Words Miriam Sturdee, Illustration Lizz Lunney. Rebirth of the pop-up cinema (003) Words Sam Groves (KINO10), Illustration Tom Camp

Five boys talk Naturism (004) Illustration Tim Hunt. Words: Lee Crutchley, Reiss Smith, Jake Cocking, Sam FW and Michael Pope Presley.

The secret desires within us always begin with a place (005) Words Caroline Simpson, Illustration Pippa Stewart Ground control to Major Tom (005) Words Kate Pearson, illustration Tom Camp

A Nation of Shopkeepers (002) Photography Stefan Greco, words Sophie Benson.

The Feather (004) Words and Illustration Lee Crutchley

Double page illustrations Christopher Worker (002), Josh Neal (003), Jimmy Rogers (005), Currentstate (004), Chantal Mayhew (005), Rebecca Cox (002), Simon Wild (003).

Vibes, Creative Tribes & Survival (004) Words Sarah Seaton (Mind Hand Vision Hearts), Illustration Claire Hartley

Poetry (004 & 005) Words Paul Askew Illustrated by MSTR Gringo and MJ Lomax. Fashion Editorials All with Fashion Direction Sophie Benson Alias (002) Photographer Jennie Sherratt Make Up Ashley Tyrrell Model Marnie Bear Blokes Clothes (002) Photographer Xanthe Hutchinson Make Up Rebecca Anderton Model Kirsty Davies @ Industry People

Good As New (004) Words Laura Booth, Illustration Lucy Driscoll Wishful thinking (005) Words Olivia Smith Nicholls, Illustration Ed J Brown It’s all in the details (002) Words Sophie Benson, Photography Kerry Leslie A different take on fake (FAKE feature) (004) Lee Crutchley words and illustration A different take on fake (005) Words Michael Pope-Presley, Illustration Holly Trill Back page illustrations: Penguins Pippa Stewart (001) Pigeons MJ Lomax (004)

Spring Forth (004) Photographer Xanthe Hutchinson Hair & Make-up Temi Aboderin Model Richard Michael Hill

Design throughout Kerry Leslie

Into The Wild (003) Photographer Xanthe Hutchinson Hair & Make-up Temi Aboderin Model L’A Tesha Wilson Visuals Spiros Halaris Title Lee Crutchley

But we’d also recommend paying a visit to our wonderful stockists, which can be found IRL: www.thatfakemagazine.com/stockists

Head in the clouds (004) Set Design Sophie Benson Photographer Jennie Sherratt Make-up Roseanna Velin Hair Lisa Farrall Model Amy F @ Alpha Agency 120

Back issues of FAKE, and pre-orders of FAKE 006 are available online: www.fakemagazine.storenvy.com

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W E A R E FA K E Kerry Leslie Co-Editor & Creative Director

Sophie Benson Co-Editor & Fashion Director