O.K. Periodicals - Issue 8 - K.O. by Superpulp

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ABOUT US William and Joost run O.K. Parking, a graphic design studio based in Arnhem, the Netherlands. Next to their commercial work for clients, they initiate many independent projects, such as this magazine and Facing Pages. This magazine shows some of the best contemporary projects in the fields of design, art, photography, illustration, new media, literature and more. It should be a timeless collectible you can consult for inspiration, over and over again. To give more insight into the wonderful independent magazine culture they organize Facing Pages, one of the largest events of this kind in the world. Three days of exhibitions, lectures, presentations, workshops, networking, meet-and-greets and party gave a lot of energy to all who were there. The next edition will (hopefully) take place in 2014. » www.ok-parking.nl » www.facingpages.org

COLOPHON O.K. Periodicals #8 Knock Out issue 2012 ISSN 1876-2395 O.K. Periodicals is founded and independently published by o.k. Parking. Contact O.K. Periodicals Roermondsplein 33 6811 JN Arnhem, the Netherlands info@ok-periodicals.com +31(0)26 3639030 Founders, curators, editors in chief, research & graphic design William van Giessen [wvg] Joost van der Steen [jvds] Editorial staff Marlies Peeters [mp] Stefan Rutten [sr] Simone Trum [st] Tanja Koning [tk] Anne Elshof [ae] Michel Walpot [mw] Thanks to all contributors. Without you this wouldn’t exist. Printing DKZet Distribution IdeaBooks Back issues: www.ok-periodicals.com All address changes, cancellations, new applications and questions regarding changes and/or shipments can be send to: klantenservice@aboland.nl Cancellations (in writing only) need to be in our possession 8 weeks before expiry of the subscription period. Always mention the title. © O.K. Parking, Arnhem, 2012 / All rights reserved. Nothing in this publication can be copied or reproduced without written permission by the publishers. The information in this book is based on material supplied by the contributors. While every effort has been made to ensure its accuracy, the publisher does not under any circumstances accept responsibility for errors or comissions.

Death and Re-Birth by Erial Ali When we were thinking of what to do with the cover of our final issue we most certainly wanted to put pictures of the complete editorial staff on the cover, but how? We remembered an “I Wish I’d Made That” from our 5th issue. Erial Ali is an artists making Celestial soul portraits and they are, in one word, magical. So we contacted him as described on his website. We filled in the “soul portrait questionaire” so he knows “the real us”. And then he meditated and “tuned into us”, to “get our unique essence”. And the result is superb! » www.erial.us

Yes, what you feared has become reality. This is our 8th and final issue of O.K. Periodicals. It is not because we don’t like making it, and it’s not because we lost inspiration. It is because we love magazines that much. This might sound strange but it isn’t. With the end of this magazine there will be a new beginning. An opportunity to explore the boundaries and possibilities of magazines (print and digital) within new projects. We have lots of ideas for new magazines and projects and feel now is the time to focus on those ideas. Start from scratch and build new windows to worlds we can explore. We also initiated Facing Pages, the international festival about independent magazines. Obviously, this event is the epitome of our love for magazines. Last april was the second edition and in 2014 will be the next one. Make sure you don’t miss it! As Erial Ali, who made the artwork for our cover, said “Each one of you is seen here in a higher more spiritualized form. Almost like a team of super heroes about to fly off into another adventure. Saving humanity from boredom by creating ever new forms of media.” So you are certainly not freed of us. Nope, you will see us around for a very long time. Although not with O.K. Periodicals anymore. It was a very tough decision but it feels good to be looking at what’s ahead of us. Thank you! We want to thank all the creative talented people who contributed in the past years. It was very inspiring to see all your great work. You made it very difficult to curate and make the final selection for each issue. We will keep an eye on you, so keep up the good work! We also want to thank all of our subscribers and buyers of the magazine. You made us feel we were doing the right thing. Thanks so much for supporting us.

Special thanks! And of course we want to express our special thanks to; Bouwe van der Molen, Marlies Peeters, Simone Trum, Stefan Rutten, Tanja Koning and Anne Elshof. As editors of O.K. Periodicals they worked with us on this wonderful project and made it the way it is right now. You’re the best! K.O. We already came up with the theme for this final issue when we started O.K. Periodicals. The theme would be O.K. K.O. And now is the time to knock ourselves out. For this final issue we invited selected artists whose work we really loved in the different issues so far. A sort of ‘goodbye with a blast/best of O.K. issue’. We asked them to give their salute to O.K. Periodicals with work especially made for this issue. We felt this should be a big goodbye so we changed the magazine format to newspaper size. And we printed 5,000 copies and distribute it for free. All over the world! Goodbye! O.K. PARKING William van Giessen Joost van der Steen p.s. feeling nostalgic? Get your back issues at www.ok-periodicals.com If you want to stay in touch: » facebook.com/okparking » facebook.com/facingpages » info@ok-parking.nl » www.ok-parking.nl

14 koen taselaar

20 asger carlsen

the tipless iceberg 06 sarah applebaum 12 joseph harmon

hot rituals 05 pixy liao

17 maarten dekker & renĂŠ kuijpers

KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

19 philip toledano

O.K. PERIODICALS #8 KNOCK OUT ISSUE

10 peter zwaan

15 theun karelse 13 gemma correll 09 martijn brugman

07 andrew thomson 03 luke drozd 02 bouwe van der molen

CONTENT

WRONG www.ASGERCARLSEN.COM

ASGER CARLSEN

PHILIP TOLEDANO

BANKRUPT www.MRTOLEDANO.COM

KNOCK YOURSELF OUT MAARTEN DEKKER

knock yourself out (STORY) www.maartensmijmeringen.nl

“ My tampon’s killing me.” That’s what she said. That was the very first thing she ever said to me. I was walking from the Paradiso club to the Leidseplein with a bunch of friends, looking for a bar to have one last beer before catching the last train to Haarlem when I saw her. She was waiting at the bus stop. Her hands were tucked deep into her pockets even though it wasn’t exactly cold. She was absent-mindedly staring at her shoes. She was the kind of girl you’d immediately want to fix up with a hot plate of food. The kind of girl you’d want to protect against the big bad world. A slender girl. You’d want to tell her everything will be all right. You don’t know what’s wrong, maybe nothing, but that doesn’t matter. In the end, everything will be all right. You picture the two of you sitting in the windowsill of her apartment, three stories up, window open just a crack to let in some fresh air, smoking one last cigarette. You’ll figure everything out in the morning. For now just enjoy the moment. It’ll be okay. She can go to sleep while you’ll wake for a few more moments. Keep her safe. As I got nearer I started to notice more and more details. The dimple in her chin. The Ramones button on the collar of her jacket. The fine hairs on the back of her delicate neck which filtered the lights of the big fast food restaurants’ neon signs behind her so that her skin seemed to glow. She was swaying ever so softly. She didn’t have any headphones or earplugs, but it looked like she was somehow dancing, slowly

knock yourself out (ILLUSTRATION) www.tekenatelier.nl

moving her weight from one leg to the other to a beat of no song I had ever heard. And all of a sudden she was looking straight at me. Angry. I must’ve looked puzzled, ‘cause that’s when she said it. By way of an explanation. “My tampon’s killing me,” she snarled. “All right!?” The girl that just a minute before had so desperately needed my protection was gone. Sharing a cigarette was out of the question. She kept on staring at me angrily, forcing me to look away, so that’s what I did. I looked away. I hadn’t done anything, had only looked at her, but by doing so I had somehow crossed a line. She had experienced the split second in which I had seen our being together as being violated. She wasn’t waiting for some knight in shiny armour, she was waiting for a bus to show up. Probably wanted to get home as soon as possible to do something about her discomfort. What had I been thinking? Meeting a girl at a bus stop and picking her up within two seconds. Like in some movie. Ridiculous. I was just going to walk away and never see her again. That’s how these things work. You meet and forget people dozens of times a day. Strangers. Maybe it was because of the beer I had consumed in the club, or rather, probably it was because of the beer I had consumed in the club, but I could not not do anything to try and fix this. I would not leave while she was this angry with me.

“Judging by your temper, is it safe for me to assume that we are not talking about a vodka tampon?” I asked. For a second, which felt like ages, she kept eyeing me angrily. I already regretted my remark and had started to turn away, my mind already set on finding my way home, when her sullenness disappeared. Her face broke into a smile. She smiled at her shoes for a moment, then said: “Some character you are.” She seemed to be in a struggle. “I was on my way home,” she said shyly, “but I guess I have some time to spare.” I looked in the direction from which I had come, and then in the direction I had been headed. My friends were nowhere to be seen, hadn’t noticed I was gone or didn’t care. Perhaps they had grown tired of my stalling. “Me too,” I said. “Me too, I guess.” That smile again. “Come on.” She took my hand and pulled me back into the night. With all of her city smarts, she led me to a place that no small-town boy like me could ever have found, past the bars on the Leidseplein, turning this way onto a canal, that way through some shady back alley. A little while later I found myself in an dim beer pub with big pints in front of us. Anonymous in the crowd. “Mind if I smoke?” I asked her. “Nope,” She said. From somewhere she produced a cigarette, lit it, then gave it to me. “Knock yourself out.”

RENÉ KUIJPERS

THEUN KARELSE

MISSION TO THE MOON www.FO.AM

The Tipless Iceberg, Imaginary Band #154 www.KOENTASELAAR.NL

KOEN TASELAAR

GEMMA CORRELL

MOTHERFLIPPING KITTIES www.GEMMACORRELL.COM

HOT RITUALS www.JOSEPH-HARMON.COM

JOSEPH HARMON

CRUMPLE ZONE www.PETERZWAAN.NL

PETER ZWAAN

We were standing on Freek’s father’s doorstep. We were hoping that if we’d clean Freek’s dad’s house he would put us in his will or let us drive around in his Jaguar on weekends. We had a carefully thought-out plan. We had borrowed Bennie’s trailer and parked it on the driveway. De Ton, Freek’s dad’s favourite bar, wouldn’t close until two o’clock, so we knew he wouldn’t be home anytime soon. Since Freek’s road accident he led a miserable life. And then eight years ago Natalia, his Russian girlfriend, left him. In the Mini Cooper he had given to her two months before. Without his son and girlfriend he had surrendered himself to Dutch gin. We would find him sloshed on benches in the park,

somewhere in the bank between De Ton and his house, one time even in Bennie’s front yard. In eight years’ time the house had deteriorated from a smart notary’s house to a hovel where the paint was flaking off the window frames and the thatched roof was green from all the moss. We were actually doing it for Freek. He would have found it horrible having to see his father live this way. In our earliest memories we had already been friends, P., Freek, and me. Up until that moment when Freek crossed the Rijksweg, our childhood had been a kind of pact between the three of us on one side and our parents, who

MARTIJN BRUGMAN

let us roam free as long we roamed together, on the other. After Freek’s death the pact had fallen apart. From that moment on our parents were consumed with fear. P. and I opened the door. Inside it reeked of alcohol and dust. There was antique furniture, chic furniture, furniture with grandeur, but if you took a closer look you could see it was threadbare and damaged, you would see the scratches in the finish, the faded upholstery. Among the antique furniture were boxes, piled up high. Between it small paths had formed so that, if you were careful, you could get to the other end of the room without

knocking anything over. I walked through one of the paths to a dark red armchair, on one of its armrests the lining was coming off. The armchair was surrounded by dirty glasses and plates with dried-out bread crusts. There were bottles of Dutch gin on a side table. I counted four of them. Further on a gilded wall mirror shone brightly between al the dustiness. The frame was made up of twisting gold branches that writhed like snakes around the mirror. A bizarre sight.

even read the title anymore. I grabbed one. It had the title The History of Ornithology. I opened it and saw beautiful drawings of black woodpeckers, American little terns and Chilean flamingos, black barbets and brightly coloured lovebirds. I read that hawk-eagles are best spotted when they are hovering in circles above the crown roof of the rainforest. I read that the beak of the Pontic seagull is thinner, on average, than that of the yellow-legged gull. It was a magnificent book. I wanted to take it. But I left it.

Next to his chair there was a revolving bookcase. I spinned it. The books had grubby covers and crumbled spines. On some of them you couldn’t

P. was outside, smoking a roll-up. He suggested we’d start shoving boxes into the trailer. ‘Listen Freddie’, he said, ‘shove in those boxes and then

THE KINGFISHER www.maeb.nl

I opened a moving box. It was filled with coffee cups. They had names of hotels on them.

we drive to the dump.’ I told him we couldn’t just throw away all his stuff. ‘So what do you want to do’, P. said, ‘Sort it all out?’ He said it like I was crazy. ‘We have to.’ ‘That’s impossible’, P. said. He threw his roll-up on the ground and walked away. Inside I began opening boxes. I found a collection of matchboxes. I took one out with a drawing of pelican on it. Brymay Redheads Safety Matches it said. Another box contained Freek’s self-burnt hip-hop CDs. He had written the names of Snoop Dogg, Ludacris, and Jay-Z on it in graffiti-style handwriting.

‘There’s stuff from Freek here too’, I said. P. didn’t want to see it. I knew that. ‘So you say what can go’, he said. I opened a moving box. It was filled with coffee cups. They had names of hotels on them. The Altstadthotel Kasererbräu in Slazburg, Hotel Des Colonies in Brussels, The Macdonald Roxburghe Hotel in Edinburgh. I pictured the stately hotels, built up in neo-classicist style, with a doorman in a uniform the same colour as the carpet of the lounge. The kind of hotel with a marble bathroom floor and a bed that comes up to your hips. A hotel with slim chambermaids in baby blue aprons, of whom

you dream they will take you to a suite once where you will chase each other and have a romp on the canopy. Shy chambermaids who giggle and of whom you know they will never do such a thing. P. had broadened the path from the door to the couch by piling up more boxes. They now reached the ceiling. P. called it a vast improvement, but I was somewhat worried they might fall down on Freek’s dad. I rummaged a bit through the boxes but the only thing I found was stuff of value, collections of salt and pepper pots, plastic miniature animals, a box

of family photos. One of them pictured Freek on his skateboard on which he couldn’t do so much as a kickflip. We couldn’t possibly throw away these boxes. It was stuff Freek’s dad was very attached to, I think. I was a bit ashamed that I, before we had entered his house, had called it junk. ‘I really don’t dare to throw anything away’, I said to P. ‘Well, that’s a lot of help’, he said. Later, when we drove off the driveway with the empty trailer, I remembered I had left the book on the history of ornithology open on the page with the beautiful drawing of a kingfisher that had speared its beak through a small fish.

ANDREW THOMSON

THE DEVIL TAKES THE HINDMOST www.SECTOR-4.CO.UK

Psychological Protest www.SARAHAPPLEBAUM.COM

SARAH APPLEBAUM

PIXY LIAO

LIVEN UP YOUR CONVERSATION WITH A NOVEL APPROACH www.BLOODYPIXY.COM

LUKE DROZD

COMPETITORS www.LUKEDROZD.COM

FORGET ABOUT SLEEP, GET BUSY DREAMING www.BOUWEVANDERMOLEN.COM

BOUWE VAN DER MOLEN