Photography: Tommy Clarke
Styling: Sacha Harrison
Hair and make-up: Annie Tagge
Model: India Wadsworth
Photographer’s assistant: Sophie Buxton
Stylist’s assistant: Christina Everington
With thanks to the Crookenden household x
An ongoing art project called ‘Pictoplasma’ came to London’s Concrete Hermit gallery during March this year to exhibit its latest book ‘Pen to Paper’. Pictoplasma being a platform for contemporary art focuses on reduced and abstract character representations throughout different media forms. Since its first event in 2004 audiences from diverse cultural backgrounds have been attending its events and from this a network has grown. Pen to paper is one of its exciting publications so far.
I find this concept can inform creative practitioners helping them to understand visual aesthetics that are applied across the modern spectrum of visual language.
ptp09: "A non-corporeal life form", Seth Scriver, 2006, Acrylic ink onThe two images above are taken from the book.
"They now simply have the possibility to expose themselves to, get involved by, and communicate with like minded artists around the globe and we very much like the resulting work."
It’s given me ideas about what ‘new art’ means today. Since the term ‘Art Nouveau’ that translates literally to ‘new art’ was coined in the late 20th century the creative practitioners of the time were also (much as is done today) pursuing the jump between the 'academic' treatment of art and art as an expressive and cathartic indulgence. I recommend this to those willing to explore creatively. And if you disagree with that, it’s worth investigating for the cultural journey.
By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton
The ominous characters of Crescent City and the greedy folk of Reno are both unflattering American stereotypes. What we experienced next of American people in Lake Tahoe and Death Valley demonstrated a far more desirable quality in the American national psyche.
We sallied forth to Lake Tahoe with the naïve notion that no popular holiday destination by a lake in the Golden State would be served up without sunshine or heat. As we approached the area, the pine trees heavy with snow were a telltale sign that we had been mistaken. Lake Tahoe, indeed a popular holiday destination, is a ski resort! The lake, it turned out, is known for the clarity of its alpine water and the panorama of surrounding mountains on all sides. Though snow was still stubbornly lining the side of the road in April, it was warm enough for us to be in t-shirts and we thought little of camping another night in the cold. Nothing, not the fact that out of a dozen campsites only one was open, or even that in this one open campsite ours was the only tent, nothing would stop us in our quest of saving a buck or two by avoiding a warm night in a motel. Having erected our tent and digging out every last piece of clothing that might get us through the night, we were accosted by the camp host Ed, who came to collect the sum of $20.00 for the plot of land we had chosen. No doubt expecting us to be seasoned and equipped campers, Ed nonchalantly informed us that a snowstorm was expected with temperatures dropping well below freezing; he was immediately faced with our horrified expressions. Too stingy to pack up and go, and too embarrassed to reveal our idiocy to Ed, we were ready for what would no doubt become a test of our endurance while Ed turned on his heels and back to the comfort of his RV. A few moments later, while we were piling on as many layers as would fit, Ed reemerged from his warm RV and headed toward our frail tent. Having reevaluated the situation, Ed decided he felt sorry for us and kindly led us to an empty RV tucked away in the back of the park. When the season reopened the following week, the RV in question would be rented out for $900.00 a week; Ed gave it to us for free and though it was damp and smelly, it might as well have been the Ritz we were so relieved to be out of the cold! We stepped out the following morning to find ourselves surrounded by six inches of snow…
As our summer tires struggled to get us up and down the Sierra Nevada mountains, we looked forward to the heat as the landscape merged into the arid desert of Death Valley where our summer tent would finally fit in! Or so we thought… The moment we exited the mountainous insulation of the Sierra Nevada, we were once again faced with unanticipated weather conditions. Having never experienced a hurricane in the mild European climate I’m used to, I can only assume that what was blazing through the desert that day was just that; a milder version perhaps, but a hurricane nonetheless. Six trucks were blown off the highway which was promptly shut leaving us stranded in a small desert town named Lone Pine on the outskirts of Death Valley. The wind made the prospect of camping one that not even we, as broke as we were, could consider. We walked into a few motels asking for their cheapest rates walking out again and again dissatisfied with their offers. Finally resigned to fork out for a night in a less than desirable room we couldn’t afford, we gave it our last ditch attempt. We walked into the last motel on Lone Pine’s Main Street and were met by rugged looking man with hair as white as snow, a deep tan and cavernous wrinkles from the dry heat and harsh desert sun. His name was Doug and completely unfazed by the hissing gale outside that had now rendered the town into a state of darkness, he calmly responded to our financial enquiry simply by saying; ‘Merry Christmas, don’t worry about it.’ Utterly bewildered by this blasé act of kindness, we protested at first but soon accepted breathing a sigh of relief as strong as the wind blowing outside. Amid Americans’ many flaws; their collective greed and often shocking lack of worldly cultural understanding, lies an admirable quality and one, which is quintessentially American. Time and time again have we encountered a kind of helpfulness and hospitality seemingly unique to the States. Whether it’s buying a breakfast smoothie and leaving with a goody bag full of granola bars and nuts given to us by the owner upon hearing of a long day’s drive ahead, or simply always being told: ‘Oh my God I love your accent!’ there is something innately kind, even admirable about the clichéd American perkiness we so often mock.
By Cecilia Seilern travelling with Lily Barton
We awoke after the worst night’s sleep of our lives having frozen to death in our far-too-large tent leaving worries of horny convicts a distant memory. As we packed up the tent, the surroundings that last night felt so intimidating to us looked much friendlier in the morning light. Our little campsite now conjured up images of happy families frolicking in the nearby stream rather than twitchy junkies hiding behind gargantuan tree trunks in search of their next fix. Tired but relieved to have gotten through our first night camping, we left the magnificent sequoia trees behind and headed for the shimmering lights of Reno. In one day’s drive, we saw the scenery change from the thick red trunks of the Redwood trees, to the snowy Sierra Nevada mountains and down into the hot and dry Nevada desert. It felt as though were my attention to wane, even just for a moment, I would miss an array of sights.
We arrived in Reno in time to see it in all its glory. The sun had set and the round casino light bulbs were shining brightly above us. Having set up camp about 20 miles outside of ‘The Biggest Little City in the World’, we were excited to sample some true American tack. Lured in by what looked like a town full of fun and our excitement probably amplified by a day in the car, we were ready to play on the penny slots and drink for free. It only took about five minutes in a casino for our excitement to falter. Surrounded by enormously fat, monosyllabic drowsy men and equally fat either half naked or half dead women chain smoking and losing all their money, we nostalgically remembered the meth addicts of Crescent City. Walking up and down the main casino street of Reno, we saw through the colourful façade and were faced with the depressing reality. Enormous casinos had turned their lights out and gone out of business, pawn and loan shops lined the streets like candy floss at a fun fair and drunken bums begged for a dollar to find a place to sleep no doubt having lost their beds at the betting tables. Although I only spent one evening in Reno it made me think of what a dying town might be like. After the Gold Rush, Nevada was left littered with ghost towns. Once prosperous mining towns were now simply abandoned after all its resources had been exhausted. This made think what an impressive ghost town Reno would make and I was left wishing its inhabitants would abandon it making my Reno dreams come true!
By Aly Darby
8 September - 16 October 10
Pangolin London
As one of the world's most notorious photographers, recognised for his iconic images of 60s and 70s legends and his love of women, few know of David Bailey’s passion for Picasso, Pliny the Elder and his dedication to making his own sculpture. In a bold move to confront our traditional perceptions of his work, Bailey will exhibit his personal collection of cast silver and bronze sculpture alongside a body of new photographs. Raw, expressive and with a good pinch of East End humour these sculptures expose a different side to Bailey which has, until now, been confined to the privacy of his studio in Devon.
David Bailey, Comfortable Skull - photo: David Bailey
PANGOLIN LONDON
Kings Place
90 York Way
London
N1 9AG
02075201480
By George Jerram
This has been emphasised with the pure joy that was experienced when South Africa took the lead against Mexico and further more with Ghana’s celebrations against Serbia. As we venture deeper into the competition I can only hope that one of the African teams can produce a special performance and reach the latter stages to mirror the passion of their people.
The England team and supporters should take a leaf out of Africa’s book and just enjoy the spectacle, we might just stand a chance, as in the end it is just a game, a game which is meant to fun.
