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CONTENTS GET IN TOUCH 4 WELCOME... 5 COVER ART 6 *,2-1'+:'; ; ; ; P4 BLANKPICKS 16 (!#; ; ; ; ; P5 #$:; #$f:; %6; ; ; OU ('2#+';; ; ; ; OM BLANK MEDIA PRESENTS 34 *,2-; ')2;+'!! '):;65 !+')#:; ; ; ; ; U4

Cover: Outpost by Marek Gabrysch, Productofboy 3

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<RXFDQDOVRĂ&#x20AC;QGXVRQRWKHUVRFLDO networking websites such as; Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Art Review & many more.

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blankpages copyright Š2006-2010 Blank Media Collective unless otherwise noted. Copyright of all artworks remains with artist. Blank Media Collective logo copyright Ben Rose 2008


WELCOME... In the past Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve heard January described as quiet, dull, depressing, grey; all those clichĂŠs. This January has been an absolute whirl! Such a lot of creativity to explore; from the Not Part Of NYE event at the Dancehouse Theatre, to the Poets and Players event Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve written about in my blankpicks, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a busy month for creative events. And February is no different. In fact it keeps getting better! â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Neck of The Woodsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; launches at Nexus Art Cafe on 11th of this month; WKHĂ&#x20AC;UVWLQDVHULHVRIH[KLELWLRQVWKDW%ODQN0HGLD&ROOHFWLYHDUHFXUDWLQJWKLV\HDUVRNHHS looking out for our involvement in all things creative. And do you like our cover art? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s from Productofboy, one of the exhibitors at â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Neck of the Woodsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. I am extremely pleased to announce that blankpages now has its very own illustrator and graphic designer, in the forms of Michael Thorp and Henry Roberts, whose names you may recognise from the amazing work they did on our humble pages over the last couple of months as Guest Visual Designers. Of course, a warm welcome to them. We also have a music feature previewing Februaryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Blank Media Presents... written by Elaine Wilson, a writer and music blogger based in Liverpool, who Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m hoping weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see a lot more of in the future So, blankpages continues to expand â&#x20AC;&#x201C; best get our literary elasticated waistbands at the ready! If you want to fall asleep on the creative sofa in your blankpages lounging gear then make sure you keep sending us your work â&#x20AC;&#x201C; weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll wrap it in visual bacon and roast it to perfection!

John Leyland, blankpages Editor



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Everyone has an internal map of the space they inhabit. Imagined emotional and SK\VLFDOPDUNHUVGHĂ&#x20AC;QHVWUHHWVZHFURVVRQ our way to work or walking to the shops or park. Working in areas of the North East of England with a â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;strong sense of communityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; I became aware that many of the residents would not venture beyond their area of town. Others would not cross certain streets within the community itself. So why in areas that claim to have such a strong sense of community were these barriers to access and movement so ubiquitous, impacting on the social structure of an area and even perhaps on work and social mobility? â&#x20AC;&#x153;Is this as far as you go?â&#x20AC;? came from a number of questions that arose from this self-regulation. What makes areas of the city no go areas? How do you decide on the parts of town that you belong to? Can being in a community in a city isolate socially and economically or is this even a desirable state for a community? How does a city overcome these barriers? Or does it serve the city to keep areas separate?

In the Essay â&#x20AC;&#x153;Bodies-Citiesâ&#x20AC;? Elizabeth Grosz surmises â&#x20AC;Śâ&#x20AC;?the citiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; form and structure provide the context in which social rules are internalized or habituated in order to ensure social conformity, or position social marginality at a safe or insulated and bounded distance (ghettoization).1

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 ;  Ă&#x152;; ; Ă&#x152; ; Ă&#x152;  Ă&#x152;; ;  ;  Ă&#x152;;   DDDDg; Lindsay Duncanson, Marek Gabrysch and Victoria Conlan are a group of artists from Newcastle and Manchester who formed as a way to maintain a creative dialogue between two cities. We have diverse creative backgrounds and trainings including Science, Photography Video and Music. The ZRUN WKDW ZH FUHDWH LV UHĂ HFWLYH RI WKLV utilising text, video, photography, sound, electronics, installation composition and performance.We all have a process-lead approach to creating work, responding to and gathering data from the environment. Finding ways to illuminate and animate

spaces using video projection, collecting and manipulating recorded sound, devising interactive sound works in response to a site or transforming a site into a musical instrument. We all have a strong sense of social and community engagement and WKLVLVUHĂ HFWHGLQWKHZRUNWKDWZHFUHDWH as individuals or as a collective. We strive to make work that challenges, inviting the audience to re-examine the way they perceive their environment. These works seek to challenge the audience to think about the way they negotiate the urban space they inhabit. To ask people to question the territories they have marked out for themselves. Using video projection into locations around Manchester we will create a number of temporary installations, each projection poses a question and invites the passerby to think about their space. Productofboy are exhibiting as part of Blank Media Collectiveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Neck of the Woodsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; exhibition at Nexus Art Cafe, Manchester (12th February - 11th April 2010 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Pubic Preview 11th February 6-9pm)

1. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Bodies-Citiesâ&#x20AC;? Elizabeth Grosz, Pg 250, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sexuality in Spaceâ&#x20AC;? Princeton Press Architectural Press 1992





Vicky is a 25 year old freelance writer based in York. She has a degree in Professional Writing and Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Studies. She is a music reviewer for various webzines. She loves hardcore, deathcore, screamo and weird electro music, writing poetry and short stories and walking in the rain.


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I wish you would just stay silent long enough for me to speak And all the words inside my head would not escape when you look at me So many nights Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve choked on salt from eyes that cried for all his lies And hearts that died in dreams when you were by my side. Just one word and the scars could close up forever.

If only I could hide in dark places no one could ever hope to reach I could evade the scathing gaze they long to cast on me And when the blackness fades and the light comes seeping back I would lay down shards of my pain between the cracks.

credit: Š

And they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see me anymore.

If I could cast the images from my mind of his goodbye Him surrounded by a hundred holes, two hundred thighs Then my withering love could slowly crawl away to die And I would steal all the silences he left behind and make them mine. And then Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have the space to speak it all out.


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$FFHOHUDWHGPLQGRIĂ&#x20AC;UHMXJJOHVDFLUFXV as I race to lie still. The steamy rock bleeds heat. My breath jumps agility from one hot coal to the next. The brain is soothed by the toweldamp curtains in the marquee of Finnish timber. Sputtering saliva is spooned with explosions from the bucket of oak. :RRGQRVHFOLPEVXSP\QRVWULOVWRWDPHWKHĂ&#x20AC;UHOLRQ 7KHEHDVWREH\VDQGVKXWWHUVDQGĂ HVKVNLQVZHDW climbs over limbs that are melting like cheese on toast. Lavender and thyme decorate the body odour. Sweet wet sweat herbs. Hairs pulled down drenched as perspiration performs acrobatics. Juicy nostrils and moist bones cushion the planks that stripe welts over my back, soft front and back. Slow milkshake drips fall onto closed eyelashes. Breath like an inside-out dragon. Breathe and burn. Burn the mulch, the chomping city, 7KHĂ DVKOLJKWFXUOVLQĂ DPHV 6LQNDQGĂ RDW and wring out the towel. 12

Portrait of a Mirror (for Parmigianino) by Cristina Nualart

Jumping right at you, viewer, the gnarled and twisted branches of a 21 year old hand. The clotted cream has been combed all the way up the arm. The arm that paints.. Crushed cotton sleeve cradles the arm that paints. Distance behind the arthritic young hand, sits the equally twisted window grasping onto walls, not to fall into its openness. $QDOPRQGIDFHSDUWVWKHĂ&#x20AC;QJHUV of window and hand, viewing you, viewer. Burgundy latte lips purse like the raisins in a scone. Face like fresh bread, leavened to ripeness enough to do the deed (self-see). Face light torch of a head turning to glass the oil and pigment. Hardening like baking bread is that gaze and that hand. The command. The paintbrush in fear incises precisely the glow and the aroma painted.

Parmigianino, Self-portrait from a convex mirror, oil on convex panel, 1524


An Ode to PMS by Cristina Nualart

Cristina Nualart is an Anglo-Spanish artist based in London. She likes to create images using pencils, paint, photographs, computers and words. She is currently working on an MA in Creative Economy. Gifted with languages, she says â&#x20AC;&#x153;I love double meanings, fusing meanings and burst of colour - in any media. I also love Benidorm and Birmingham!â&#x20AC;? For more information go to 14

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The Whitworth Art Gallery is fast becoming the place I consume the most of my doorstep cultural nutrition. Amid the marvellous 'Walls Are Talking' exhibited wallpaper prints and looking out over Winter's Whitworth Park was the setting IRUWKH3RHWVDQG3OD\HUVĂ&#x20AC;IWKDQQLYHUVDU\ gathering and showcase. Apparently born out of a desire for creative interdisciplinary collaboration and providing a platform for emerging talent (both areas of great personal interest to me), 'Poets and Players' now attracts KHDOWK\ DXGLHQFH Ă&#x20AC;JXUHV DQG $UWV &RXQFLO funding. All good for the causes of artistic advancement, surely.

The afternoon began with a composition of dance and music by Robin Tu and Chris Davies respectively. Explorations of shape and space using differing speeds of movement spoke to me of the journey of life, and the beauty of such interpretive dance is just that â&#x20AC;&#x201C; interpretation. I pondered the wisdom of starting the proceedings with something so wildly expressionistic and hoped for more later. All the reading poets were given manageable time slots, and while Keith Lander and Kathryn de Belle displayed moments of insight, I found them mostly looking backwards, making somewhat tired points in obvious simile and image.

For this anniversary event, the 'Poets and Players Advisory Group' stepped out from behind the scenes to share with us their own poetic endeavours.


$OLFLD6WXEEHUVĂ&#x20AC;HOGZDVE\IDUP\IDYRXULWH SRHW RI WKH Ă&#x20AC;UVW KDOI DQG LQGHHG WKH GD\ Her engaging tones and use of detail struck a chord with me; I felt she really inhabited her work, whether responding to a painting or lovingly and respectfully invoking a character from her own life experience. After the break we were treated to more meditative movements from Robin Tu, again accompanied by instrumental composition from Chris Davies. This time the performance was embellished with words spoken by Linda Chase, echoed by DQRWKHU RYHUODLG PDOH YRLFH $W Ă&#x20AC;UVW WKLV VHHPHG EULHĂ \ RXW RI UK\WKP EXW DV WKH piece progressed all the elements came together to create an atmosphere of calm contemplation. Jeffrey Wainwright's references were somewhat lost on me, but his posed question ('Is our language complete?') was food for thought. I personally wanted the poems to


present a clearer case on both sides, but the question is inherently speculative and in KLVRZQZD\KHUHĂ HFWHGWKDW Caroline Hawkridge was the surprise of the afternoon. Initially her delivery was a ELW Ă DW EXW KHU SDQRUDPLF YLVLRQV RI WKH earth, rich with the colours of nature dispensed with any such concerns. I was taken with her use of the chameleon as a vehicle to highlight the 'geophysical' history of language. Overall, the 'Poets and Players Advisory Group' should be congratulated on their achievements, and the understated opulence of the Whitworth is fortunate setting for these events. I look forward to hearing Vona Groarke on 27th February DQGP\Ă&#x20AC;QDOWKRXJKWLVWKLV²DOWKRXJKWKHVH artists are established in their practice, at their core they still have the ethos of promoting emerging art, and that should be applauded. Written by John Leyland

Andrew Gilmore is a writer and artist living in Manchester. He has had poetry published, written a horror novel called Gate and a children's picture book. Gilmore is currently working on new short stories for a collection.


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;2 ;"     Ă&#x152; ;;  Ă&#x152;;#   John stumbled through the tall grass, nearly toppling over before regaining his balance. His lungs burnt like kettles boiling dry. For most of the time John gazed at the terrain, watching where his feet went. Grass and weeds with leaves like the end of the Devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tail repeated along their length threatened to swallow his shoes. An icy breeze from the northeast raised goose bumps on his arms. Usually before John left the house his mom forced him to put on a big coat and heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d zip it up to the chin. John did it perfectly well, but not to her standards. She always thrust and Ă XQJ KLP DERXW Ă&#x20AC;WWLQJ KLP LQVLGH WKH JUD\ DQG EOXH VKHOO -RKQ PLJKW FDWFK D Ă DVK RI something up her cardigan cuff; scrunched up tissue. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d grimace with anticipation. At any moment sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d whip it out, spit into the ball (a really slimy one), and wipe his face. The coat felt ten times too big and the VOHHYHV UHVWULFWHG Ă H[LELOLW\ $W WKH HQG RI UDPURG VWUDLJKW DUPV SLQN Ă&#x20AC;QJHUV ZRXOG protrude. Not today, however. He had to 19

admit he did feel smaller and naked without that fabric armour. Dirty clouds parted and hazy shafts of light surged down behind the distant treetops. The sun touched his face and heated his skin, then deserted his cheek allowing the chilly air to creep back. Dew from last night’s downpour began to seep into his white sport socks. Dark spots showed on his beige pants. Out here the wilderness had not been tamed as in the garden. Blades of grass, dark green, clung to his sneakers like shipwrecked passengers. When he focused he heard a babbling stream some way off. Young John pressed on. In the forest around him lurked monkeys, wild boars and tigers. A brown dappled and crumbling Pepsi can was stood up in the dirt. John passed many potato chip bags, their colours bleached by months of sun and rain. Dew drops and black earth stuck to the transparent window of the packets: a lovely yucky home for a slug. He meandered through a spindly group of trees before re-entering the forest. Monumental trunks towered up into rich green. Dots of bright gray-white shone

between the leaves making the thinnest glow. Damp soil crumbled underfoot, beneath that LPSDFWHGHDUWKPDGHWKHÁRRU John heard the stream louder this time. 7KH ÁRZ VHHPHG PRUH XUJHQW $ PRQNH\ sprang through the canopy silently, moving VR DFFXUDWHO\ WKDW LW DSSHDUHG WR Á\ 7KH animal melted into the silhouetted branches and spectrum of green. For an unfathomable reason John thought of his father (How dare you mess up my thoughts; I escaped you) DOEHLWSDUWVRIKLPDWRZHULQJÀJXUHZLWK hands like bear paws designed for protecting and punishment. Dads play cars and catch with their children. That’s what other Dads did. Their cheeks are prickly and they smell different to moms, more earthy, worn in. Pushing through the undergrowth the fear of the big kids snatched him. They were about somewhere and would attack when he let them slip from his thoughts. Twenty minutes ago John had run into two of them. They appeared bigger than any parent, even on the other side of the road.


He strolled through the industrial area of town near the bus depot. Past rectangle buildings, most of them scalped and left ZLWK ÁDW URRIV :HHGV DQG VKUXEV FUHSW between the units, growing stealthily and when nobody is watching. Before you know it they’re all over like a rash, an infection that must be dug out at the root. John noticed the two big kids when he turned onto the bottom of the street. His nerves tingled and he shot his gaze forward and held it. If he didn’t acknowledge their existence they’d cease to be. His eyes wanted to glance over like mischievous brats. He resisted. John became conscious of his gait: the way his knees bent and whether he bounced or not. He wondered how low his head hung. His mother would say if you don’t stand up straight you’ll turn into Quasimodo. He peeked from the corner of his right eye. They stood with their attention already settled on him. Words were exchanged. You do not know they exist, he told himself and continued ultra-aware of his walking style. He prayed they didn’t notice his peculiar strides...


A solid object clipped the side of his hand. John realized the hardness of his skull as the SDLQÁDVKHGWKURXJKLWDOWKRXJKWKHLPSDFW was quick and light. Another struck the wall a yard in front. John glared at the pock-marked brickwork then the pavement to locate the missile. Ping. He caught the cent as it rolled into the road like a boomerang returning to its master. Obviously his brain box did not ZDUUDQWDIXOOWZHQW\ÀYHRUDGROODU Unable to fake ignorance any more he stared at his attackers. They laughed. One of them wore jeans, had black hair and sported a side parting. The other wore a red jacket over his woolen jumper. Short brown hair sat on his head. From their height and wide shoulders he guessed they were on the football team. Not being interested in the school’s team he didn’t recognize them. There was no one at either end of the street, no one who might see his dilemma and help. He pushed on remaining silent, determined. He didn’t possess any retorts, especially when it came to situations like this. His mind never functioned that way. One of them creased up with laughter then pitched a coin. He felt wobbly and encased in empty space. How many people were in

this town? It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t happening to anyone else, just him, John Eckland. Just him. John made it out of their range and interest QHYHUORRNLQJEDFN+LVLQQDUGVIHOWGHĂ DWHG - something, he suspected, to do with what adults call self-e-steam. He heard no more coins ricochet off the stone or his head. A small boy, on his lonesome proved to be slim pickings. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d entertained them like a new toy on Christmas Day, now John meant nothing in their world. Up in front he noticed the opposite bank of the stream. Passing a stubby log he arrived at the lip of the trough. The ground rolled down and at a manageable degree and rose in the same way. Rocks mottled in different shades of gray held their faces above the surface of the baby stream. Moss dotted them. He let himself go and hurtled down the slope, his feet picking up speed rapidly. Cool air rushed through his locks, while nerves bristled and adrenalin rushed through his body. Out of control he leapt too late and splashed on launching. The momentum took him up the rise. At the peak John experienced a twinge as the

gravity slackened. His socks retained water OLNHDVSRQJH+HĂ H[HGKLVFROGGHDGHQLQJ toes. Weaving with the stream he raced a leaf, letting it win. As he skipped along the gurgle thickened. The stream vanished round a bend. A noise resounded off concrete: thin and constant like tissue paper being rustled in a steel tube. He smelt the old, dank water in there. The tunnelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth yawned to a height of twelve feet. It looked like a goal for a giantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soccer game. The darkness swallowed a Ă DPLQJPHWHRUNLFNHGE\DQLQYLVLEOHSOD\HU A pipe stretched from the depths and tapered off before halting in front of him. The water pipe glistened down its length. Why did they build a pipe and an outlet? +ROHV SXQFWXUHG WKH ULJKW Ă DQN DW GHFLGHG intervals. His joints fused. An icy snake slithered up his back. The skin on his arms and nape tightened erecting tiny blonde hairs. John recognized it from his Wild Life Fact File, part twenty-seven, number four in the mollusk section. The suckers reminded him of his Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth when she tried to 22

kiss him goodbye. They looked sore, dark SXUSOHEURZQ HQFLUFOHG E\ OLJKWHU Ă HVK Where are the other seven arms? What if there are more octopuses, or octopodes? The air turned heavy. He sensed someone nearby. Somewhere down in that tunnel two huge eyes stared at him. The orbs rolled in their wet sockets, to get a better look at the little silhouette framed by a black arch. In his mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye the razor-beak, the size of a JCB scoop, gaped open. Something moist glistened in the hole, sluggishly moving in anticipation of its next meal. Do octopuses have tongues? He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care. John thought of its appendages running under the town in the way the interstate did in his Dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s road map. No one was out of its slimy reach. His heart beat: a mad man pounding to be freed. What if it gets me like the bad men mom warned me of? He heard her cautionary voice: John, if they offer you anything you say no and walk away. Adults often sounded like parrots to him when they said this. He knew theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d read or heard the information somewhere else. They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think it up themselves. Back in the garage there was a jumbo

battery topped with steel contacts. He could use it to electrocute the mollusk. Everything in there smelt dry and musty. The arsenal of tool kits brimming with oxidized bolts, nails, screws and the odd wrench of belonged to his father. There was a stubby Black and Decker drill, wrapped in a shopping bag, the handle felt smooth. Also, there was a rake, broom and the crème de la crème; an electric hedge trimmer. It was the closest John had ever come to a chainsaw. He could grab that and use it like a futuristic sword and slice of the monster’s arms. In the corner of his eyes the tentacle twitched. Fear bubbled up, rising through his torso and pulling the corners of his mouth down. He didn’t want to cry; the situation demanded clear eyes and besides the big kids might catch him. They’d shout: Sissy, crybaby, big girl. Those words would have torn chunks out of him.

hollow, metallic clank. He didn’t see where it landed because he ran the second the object left his palm. John ran concentrating on his legs, willing all the strength he owned to them.

When a foot touched the dirt he pushed down as hard as possible to propel himself faster.

He ran. He lunged and picked up a rock from the earth. Icy droplets clung to his knuckles.

He ran like a human torch to water.

He forced all the power into his hand, wishing it to be big. Assuming the stance of a baseball player he launched the object. The stone rebounded making a 23

THIS MONTHâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MP3 ;;;#2%';@; (Ă&#x152;

Following last yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s successful performance at Blank Media Presents, this month weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re bringing you an mp3 by Lancasterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s TAPE. The group was formed in 2008 when vocalist/keyboardist Toby Rothwell and drummer Andy Gill met over Music Technology lectures at Lancaster University. After one or two tweaks to the line-up, they settled with Sean Miller on guitar and fan-turned-bandmate Charlotte Watts on bass, the latter learning the entire set in one day following the unexpected loss of her predecessor.

TAPE are a very contemporary indie band GUDZLQJLQĂ XHQFHIURPWKHOLNHVRI79RQ the Radio, The Secret Machines and Yeah Yeah Yeahs, but also citing inspiration as IDUĂ XQJDV7KH1LQH,QFK1DLOV%RDUGV2I Canada and My Bloody Valentine, perhaps just about audible with obvious attention having been paid to the detailed textures. Textures, hooks and driving beats are all present and correct in â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;iFearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; which you should be listening to now, and it is a perfect example of the bandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work. The future is bright for TAPE. This year, Ă&#x20AC;QJHUVFURVVHGWKH\ZLOODOOJUDGXDWHIURP university and embark on a joint migration to London, where the streets are paved with gold and, more importantly, record labels! Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure this wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be the last you hear of them.




FEATURE Ì ; ¶ I am a Bachelor of Art in Fine Arts (University of the Basque Country) and also a half BA in Journalism (University of Navarre). I was born in Pamplona, Spain, a few months after World Cup 78. I have been in illustration for more than 10 years. I also write a blog (elcanodromo.blogspot. com) and paint. I have worked for CNN. com, Grupo SIENA, Diario de Navarra, Diario de Noticias, La Voz de Almería, El Diario del Alto Aragón, Diari de Tarragona, Canarias, La Opinión de Tenerife (Spain); Etiqueta Negra (Perú); Marvin, La Tempestad, Tangente, Boulevard (Mexico), Knot, The City Magazine (Colombia), Exo2 (Venezuela), Capicúa (Chile), DY (USA) In the meantime, I have done two individual exhibitions (Pamplona, Spain, and Atlanta, USA) and I have attended workshops imparted by world renowned artists such us Antonio Lopez and Juan Jose Aquerreta.


e;f; Ă&#x152;;Ă&#x152;; D; 2;;Ă&#x152;; C;;; ;   ; Ă&#x152;; Ă&#x152;; Ă&#x152;; Ă&#x152; ; ; Dg How do I confront a white paper? It depends on the topic, my mood at the moment, and the customer, of course. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have a method. All of a sudden, I come up with an idea and start the process. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather experiment with new things than stick to a style. But the pure drawing is essential to me, everything starts with the drawing: the pencil, the marker, whatever. Then, I combine it with photographs, I love the collage technique. And the last phase is the Photoshop job, a key tool. I blend everything in.





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Collage is my favorite technique. Sometimes I do it in paper from scratch, others, I start in Photoshop. I work over DQ LPDJH D WKRXVDQG WLPHV XQWLO , Ă&#x20AC;QG WKH result I like. When I start an illustration I GRQ¡W NQRZ ZKDW WKH Ă&#x20AC;QDO UHVXOW ZLOO EH , like to surprise myself, do different things. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t imagine myself stuck in a style.

The most important thing for me is to make the audience/readers think, provoke them if you will. The drawing, gestures, traces, textures, colors, compositions... itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a wonderful language. Illustration is a portable art, unlike galleries and museums, it is more accessible and popular. For more images and information visit



BLANK MEDIA PRESENTS... Blank Media Presents... brings a diverse evening of music to Manchester every month, and February is no exception. The bands that we will be showcasing on the 27th February are a mix of vibrant heavy rock and post-punk with a hint of wild eyed stage thrashing. The three bands NASDAQ, The Freezing Fog and Klaus Kinski - come from the same heavy rock heritage but have taken their music in different directions, complementing each other, whilst bringing something new to the table. NASDAQ are The FTSE 100 rejuvenated. To those who are familiar with The FTSE 100, you will see a different side to these guys. According to band member Dan Bridgwood-Hill, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The heavy bits are heavier DQG WKH GUXP Ă&#x20AC;OOV DUH JHWWLQJ ORQJHU DQG longer until they blur into one big drum Ă&#x20AC;OO1$6'$4LVDELWOLNH7KH)76(¡V evil twin. Both bands play very sad music, but whereas FTSE is sad in a mournfully melancholic way, NASDAQ gets angry and starts throwing things around. Both bands have exactly the same people playing exactly the same instruments, but there

are differences.â&#x20AC;? What those differences are you will have to see on the night. The second band on the bill are The Freezing Fog. These guys have a classic, old school sound to their music, bringing in elements of Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin combined with the heavy guitar riffs of the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;90â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grunge movement and the frenetic energy of bands such as System of a Down. Klaus Kinski, named after the German actor of the same name, call themselves a post punk band. Although their music GHĂ&#x20AC;HV ODEHOLQJ ZLWK VXFK D VLPSOLVWLF WLWOH There are elements of metal as well as SXQNEXWWKHWUXHGHĂ&#x20AC;QLQJHOHPHQWRIWKHLU sound cannot be named in musical terms. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more of a feeling of panic, unsettled and removed from that which feels familiar. It must be no coincidence then, that their namesake was known for his wild eyed, sex crazed maniac image who had a diagnosis of schizophrenia under his belt. I caught up with Klaus Kinski (the band) to discuss this particular image, as well as their new EP and Kasabian.




$;;-Ă&#x152; ;-  f; Ă&#x152; ; ;  ; Ă&#x152; ;Ă&#x152;;  ; ;  S Jake: I think that sort of came after it. Me and Ed were watching Nosferatu and we decided to call it Klaus Kinski. It became a sort of synergy of crazy music for a crazy person. Although we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t realise how crazy he was at the time. Edwin: We were quite tame when we Ă&#x20AC;UVW VWDUWHG EXW DV ZH JRW WR NQRZ KLP better...

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:; f; ;Ă&#x152;;  ; ; ; Ă&#x152;;   ;  S Edwin: It was more of a strictly post punk thing originally Dominic: Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not really playing the guitar; itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more like making interesting sounds on the guitar.


Dylan: Yeah thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no chords involved any more is there? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just like different ways of playing guitar. Since we havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t EHHQLQĂ XHQFHGE\$UDE2Q5DGDUZHMXVW started being ourselves I think.

:; ; ; Ă&#x152;; ;;   ; Ă&#x152;; ; ; ;S Jake: The band started about 5 years ago. )RUWKHĂ&#x20AC;UVWKDOIRIWKH\HDULWZDVPHDQG Ed in a garage in my house, just covering Joy Division over and over, and then we got a few songs and then James joined. When we were going to record the CD-Edwin: --The day before-Jake: Yeah, we wrote three songs the day before we were supposed to record them. Edwin: Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been playing live with the full band for about a year and a half. Jake: Since November 2008. Edwin: Yeah we never played like a proper gig before then, well, we played gigs but we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t play full gigs. They were either quite short or just we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t play songs. We did one which was sort of in a metal head sort of place. Jake: The music sort of sounded different then as opposed now. A lot less distortion. Dylan: It was in November, about 2 years DJR ZLWK WKH %%& ZKHQ ZH KDG RXU Ă&#x20AC;UVW

proper gig. That was massive, we actually got paid shitloads. It was quite weird.

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Ă&#x152; D; $;  ;  ;  ;  ;   ; ; ; ;  ;;S Jake: Chaos groove... Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really hard to GHĂ&#x20AC;QH LQ D ZD\ ZH SOD\ UHDOO\ KRUULEOH discords more than anything else. Especially live as well. Edwin: I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a song that weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done in this sort of line up thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s had 2 notes actually being played well. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a nice chord in the whole thing really, everything is either really discordant or not put together. But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got a structure as well, you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t call it noise because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got a structure and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got songs, but having said that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not exactly pop. But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s within pop, in that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got a verse, chorus, verse, chorus but not as, erm... I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m talking about... Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s basically based on repetition for the most part I think. We play melodies but not like melodies, do you know what I mean? I suppose itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more like Post Punk. Yeah itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Post Punk.


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$;Ă&#x152; ;Ă&#x152; ;Ă&#x152; ; ; ;Ă&#x152;  ; ; Ă&#x152;;Ă&#x152;; S;; ;'%;:  ; $ ;;S Edwin: We had a 7 inch out on Ankst record label from Wales. And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s done, itsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; just been sent off for mastering. And

in terms of thinking of its success, well everyone wants an album out but if you think of it as â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;I wanna be like Kasabianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. No one wants to be like that, everyone thinks theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re shit. James: Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not really an issue, why would you start off a punk band and end up like that? Edwin: Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not fun really. We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to end up playing stadiums or anything. Jake: In all fairness, I think the success weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve had has been more of a surprise. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not the kind of music you could push on commercial radio or anything. Dylan: We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand how weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve managed to get an album. Yâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;know, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a lot of gigs where itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s very divided. Jake: Some people like the live show. When we play live, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got compliments about that. The energy and everything. Some people have heard the CD and not liked it and seen us live and we were amazing.

Some compensation would be nice, it gets annoying. Edwin: Yeah thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what we want. We want to be paid. Just to get enough popularity to go around the place and enjoy ourselves. 3HWUROPRQH\DQGIRRGDQGWKDW¡VĂ&#x20AC;QH$QG if someone gives us anything else then that would be wicked.

the time you would think that the songs are about murder and sex and stuff, but theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not actually about that. Apart from one. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just cathartic really. Jake: I think all the music and the vocals and the imagery that Dyl does, like the artwork and everything, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a sexy, sexy nightmare.

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James: Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll become Kasabian. Edwin: Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be making recordings of the A55 with the soundtrack of babies screaming over the top, and it will be on a disc about 7 hours long. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I see us turning into.

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Edwin: Yeah it would be nice, if we play out of town and get paid for it. Jake: We paid like ÂŁ150 to get to one gig.

James: Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one of the ways I get things out a lot of the time, so I just write about whatever Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m feeling at the time. A lot of 37

Edwin: Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not in a position to give out advice. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do what weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done. James: I know we were saying before, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Oh yeah we just rip off bandsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think we do really. Some guy was saying the other day â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s better to plagiarise and be good, than to be shit all by yourself.â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather be shit all by myself, than completely rip off somebody else yâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;know? Words: Elaine Wilson Blank Media Presents... NASDAQ, The Freezing Fog and Klaus Kinski is at Fuel CafĂŠ Bar in Withington, Manchester on Saturday 27th February 2010 from 8.30pm

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#Ă&#x152; Ă&#x152;;2 ;J# ;)Ă&#x152;I ;2 Ă&#x152; ;  ;;; ;& :Ă&#x152; Ă&#x152;;P6 ;( Ă&#x152; C;O@U Taneesha Ahmed, one part of The Denmasons leads a den-making workshop in association with Neck of the Woods on 13 February at Nexus Art Cafe, Manchester. Participants will have the opportunity to work alongside Taneesha inspired by KHU VLWHVSHFLĂ&#x20AC;F DQG YLGHR ZRUN 7KH Denmasons in Nexus Art Cafe. Taneesha will lead the workshop to help participants create a den in the garden area of Nexus Art Cafe. All ages and abilities are welcomed however children under 11yrs will need accompanying by an adult.


#Ă&#x152; Ă&#x152;;2 ;3;2;   J# ;)Ă&#x152;I The Denmasons project is a collaborative project between Taneesha Ahmed and Alex Moore. The intentions of our art practice remains to promote the ideology of The Denmasons. The imperative for the Denmasons to be a collaborative piece was to produce art that did not have an individual authorship. The paradox of the formation of a cult would suggest that WKHUH LV QR LGHQWLĂ&#x20AC;DEOH DXWKRU EXW WKLV LV in fact myth being presented as truth. The 'HQPDVRQVĂ&#x20AC;FWLRQDOLVHVDQGVXEYHUWVWKHLU own authority, by parodying themselves and their actions. The intention was to FUHDWH DQG GLVVHPLQDWH Ă&#x20AC;FWLRQ DV IDFW where we have created a layered narrative that is simultaneously non- sensical and completely farcical.

Neck of the Woods is an exhibition curated by up and coming Blank Media Collective at Nexus Art CafĂŠ opening with a public preview on 11 February (6-9pm) until 11 April. For further information please visit


*Ă&#x152;;  Ă&#x152;;! ;#Ă&#x152;H Director: Mark Devereux Financial Administrator: Martin Dale Development: Dwight Clarke Information Manager: Sylvia Coates Web Manager: Simon Mills Exhibitions Coordinators: Jamie Hyde, Marcelle Holt & Claire Curtin Special Projects Coordinator: Petra Hoschtitzky Blank Media Presents... Manager: Iain Goodyear 2IĂ&#x20AC;FLDO3KRWRJUDSKHU*DUHWK+DFNLQJ Blank Media Presents... Steve Goossens

Ă&#x152;Ă&#x152; ;#Ă&#x152;H Editor: John Leyland Fiction Editor: Phil Craggs Poetry Editor: Baiba Auria Music Editor: Dan Bridgwood-Hill Visual Editors / Designers: Henry Roberts & Michael Thorp



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