the se
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: winte
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Proudly supported by McKR: www.mckr.com.au Cover: 300gsm Satin Carbon Neutral FSC Text: 130gsm Satin Carbon Neutral FSC Typeset in Whitney Overcoat is an independent production publication. The articles appearing within this publication reflect the opinions of their respective authors and are not necessarily those of the publishers or editorial team.
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Photo: Dalton Bruyns
Editors: Pete Saunders, Jessie Webb Sub-Editor: Eric Brotchie Designer: Pete Saunders Illustrator: April Wright Cover: Nipun Srivastava — Wick!: bitter cold and a warm flame make for the ideal setting for a new years eve under the stars. Shot in the jungles of the western ghat mountains in India, the lens is pushed into macro to get up close and personal to the lamp lighting his way. hello@undercoat.net www.undercoat.net
contributors Eric Brotchie (Leiden University) Marishka Cross (Curtin University / Swinburne University) Adrian Goodman (Victorian College of the Arts) Simon Harsent (Watford College) Loretta Lizzio (GCIT Coomera Tafe) Tahjee Moar (University of New South Wales) Sunny Nyssen (Photography Studies College) Imogene Tudor (University of New South Wales)
additional images Dalton Bruyns Ivanna From Russia With Love Rachel McLaren Jurassic Melbourne Scott Sanders
Overcoat is an online publication that aims to share the highest standard of work being produced in creative and professional fields from different institutions globally. It is a platform designed to inspire and connect students and alumni within their own community and with like-minded people around the world. If you would like to contribute work to Overcoat, please send us an email.
contribute@undercoat.net 4
Photo: Rachel McLaren
winter/editor Winter is my favourite season. I’ve been a child of snow all my life and I feel most at peace in the mountains. The original idea for this magazine was conceived while I was in the mountains. As a student, I listened to a talk from a magazine editor who decided he wanted to create a photography-only issue, without a word of text. I was amazed by the possibilities that editorial freedom allowed. When we started this journey three years ago, I had a long-term objective: that one day, I would be in the editorial position to publish an entirely black and white issue. Once the concept of the seasonal collection started to take shape, winter seemed like the perfect choice for a black and white edition. The starkness of snow on trees and grime on streets seemed to suit. Winter is the coldest season and I always find black and white imagery to be inherently cold. But as the issue evolved and the articles started coming in, I realised quickly that by placing this stipulation upon the winter issue, it was doing the season a disservice. Winter is beautiful. It can be harsh and unforgiving but it can also bring warmth and connection to our lives through the collective goal of retaining heat. We huddle together, we curl up on the couch, we get an extra blanket from the cupboard, we share a warming drink. Further to that, winter landscapes are stunning. The colours of sunrises and sunsets seem more vibrant as they are contrasted heavily against the grey and white landscape of the world below. For those of us who see the world as it wakes, we are often rewarded with a spectrum of colour that we otherwise forget to notice through our own breath. Ice itself creates incredible shapes and colours and the prismatic nature of sun through a snowflake is one of my fondest visual memories. So our winter issue is not black and white, in any sense. It is an exploration of elements that make up who we are as artists and how we approach our craft — and there are as many colours as there are shades of grey. Although this is not it, perhaps one day, I will get to create my black and white issue.
pete saunders 6
Contents 09/ melt
simon harsent 23/ a new wave tahjee moar 31/ sketchy times imogene tudor 41/ seeking the hidden adrian goodman 55/ in my element eric brotchie loretta lizzio 71/ moths to a flame sunny nyssen 83/ double cross marishka cross
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melt
Portrait of an Iceberg. simon harsent watford college
Ever since I can remember I’ve been fascinated by the way the decisions I make determine the paths that I travel on my journey through life. Decisions we make at any given time determine the shape of the rest of our lives. Each road leads to other roads and those roads lead to still others and so on: an infinite number of options. Some roads might intersect, or even lead to the same destination; but there are some from which there is no turning back. I set foot on the most crucial of my ‘roads of no return’ when I was eleven years old. I had decided to paint a picture of the Titanic colliding with the iceberg. I don’t really know why I decided to paint a picture, or why this subject came to me, but three years later, I was still painting. I had become deeply interested in art and art history. I spent hours painting and looking at reproductions of paintings by major artists, many of whom remain sources of inspiration to me today. Then came another road, another option: photography was offered at school. I signed up for the class thinking of it as nothing more than a way of documenting things I might want to paint. When I developed my first photo and saw the image coming clear, everything changed. I felt something I’d never felt before: intense, absorbing, and wholly personal. The word ‘vision’ took on a whole new meaning. I knew for sure that photography would be the great passion of my life. I often think back to the moment when I decided to paint the iceberg, and the path on which that took me. I have no doubt that the journey I’m on now is linked to this one definitive moment in my life. The body of work that constitutes Melt could never have come into being any other way. During my research into the Titanic disaster, I discovered that the iceberg had almost certainly travelled down ‘Iceberg Alley’, an area off the West coast of Greenland. Along this passage, icebergs break away from the ice-wall and travel from Baffin Bay to the East Coast of Newfoundland and Labrador, where they enter the shipping lanes. Melt begins with images of the massive icebergs as they enter Greenland’s Disco Bay from the Ilulissat Icefjord; it ends with images of icebergs found off the East Coast of Newfoundland. By this time, 10
the icebergs have travelled hundreds of miles, and are so battered and broken down that they are little more than ghosts of what they once were. To see them first overpowering in grandeur and then, later, about to be absorbed back into the flux from which they came is both beautiful and humbling: a metamorphosis that endows each with a life-span, a personality, and its own story. This project had its origin in a wholly personal moment: a personal journey. It is impossible, however, to look at these images and not think of the environmental issues we face right now. Just as the choice I made in my childhood in some ways defined me as a man, so the choices we are making as a species will define who we become, and what becomes of the planet on which we live. http://www.simonharsent.com/
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a new wave
The next generation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander artists. tahjee moar university of new south wales
For the past two years I have worked at the Art Gallery of New South Wales as a Gallery Educator, teaching audiences about Indigenous culture, history and identity. To me, working in the arts sector is an important way to ensure the continuity of art as a tool for cultural and political empowerment for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people; to ensure our stories continue to be shared and to facilitate a dialogue with Indigenous and non-Indigenous audiences. My mother’s family is from the Meriam people of the eastern region of the Torres Strait Islands, and my father’s family is from the Barkindji and Malyangapa people of western New South Wales. My heritage also extends to Scotland, Ireland and England. I became drawn to pursuing a career in the arts when I was in high school. My visual arts teacher would often take my class on excursions to the Art Gallery of New South Wales. I can still recall the experience of standing in the Yiribana Gallery, absorbing the personal narratives that sounded from the walls as if they were my own. Sharing and exchange have always been central to the continuity of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander culture. For countless generations, the passing down of knowledge for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people has occurred through oral, visual and performative forms of expression. Today, this tradition is embodied through art. I first started in the Indigenous arts sector when I was eighteen years old. After completing my first year at art school, I received a placement in the Wesfarmers Arts Indigenous Leadership Program at the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra. The program gave me early insight into one of the core issues of the Indigenous arts sector, which is that much of the dialogue surrounding Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander art and cultural practice is still largely controlled by non-Indigenous people. Participating in the program alongside Indigenous arts workers and professionals from all over Australia was a valuable opportunity to be part of a conversation with a community of people who were committed to building a strong network of Indigenous leaders in the arts. Most importantly, it taught me the value of a having a support 24
group of peers and mentors, and the difference that mentorship makes between working in isolation and contributing to a discussion. One of my earliest mentors was Jonathan Jones. I met Jonathan when he was Curator of Indigenous art at the Art Gallery of New South Wales (AGNSW). When I started as a trainee at the Gallery in 2011, Jonathan became a colleague and then mentor. As I became interested in researching into the Gallery’s collection of Torres Strait Islander art and resources, Jonathan played a huge part in helping me to forge connections with Torres Strait Islander artists around the country. One artist that I felt particularly privileged to meet was Ken Thaiday Snr, whose sculptures I have always admired through the ways in which they beautifully combine the practice of traditional Islander headdress-making with the evocativeness of lived experience and personal memory. By interviewing Ken, I began to see him as not only an artist, but also as a senior custodian of cultural knowledge for the Torres Strait Islander community whose practice is important in contributing to the ongoing cultural heritage of the Torres Strait Islands. Having the experience of being mentored at the Gallery, which gave me the opportunity to work with artists like Ken Thaiday, reinforced my understanding of the important role our artists have as cultural leaders, storytellers and vessels for knowledge, and also how vital it is, as a young Indigenous person in the arts sector, to engage in intergenerational dialogues to learn from senior members of the community. Another important mentor has been Tess Allas. I met Tess while I was a student of her course, ‘Right Here Right Now: Aboriginal Art Since 1984’ at the College of Fine Arts (COFA) at the University of New South Wales (UNSW). Since completing my degree, Tess has remained a friend, a mentor and a collaborator, and we have developed a close bond from working alongside each other. We have been developing a project in connection with the community at COFA’s Cicada Press, which hosts printmaking workshops for local, interstate and international artists. In consultation with COFA’s Head of Printmaking and Director of Cicada Press, Michael Kempson, the workshops are
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usually scheduled to take place over the course of a week and at a time when all the participating artists are visiting Sydney. Some of the artists that have been a part of Cicada Press that I have had the opportunity to work with have included Dale Harding, Jason Wing and Darrell Sibosado. Because the workshops take place in an environment where Indigenous artists who are at different stages of their career are developing and sharing ideas for their works in a space together, naturally there is a sense of camaraderie and reciprocity where people are learning from each other. Being part of this type of community reflects the concept of sharing and exchange that has been central to the continuity of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander culture. One of my proudest achievements has been working on Next Wave Festival’s 2014 keynote initiative, Blak Wave. The project aimed to explore the current personal, political and artistic agenda for emerging and established Indigenous artists. As a young person, I was particularly passionate about being involved in producing a publication that promoted a dialogue between emerging and established Indigenous artists and arts practitioners in the community. Collaborating with Emily Sexton and Meg Hale from Next Wave Festival to achieve this was a very positive experience that embodied what I feel the arts sector often lacks, which is pulling Indigenous and non-Indigenous people together to have an open conversation. What was also important about the project was that it connected the voices of Indigenous artists to the domain of contemporary artistic expression and did not necessarily follow a familiar agenda in doing so, such as including Indigenous artists as a tokenistic add-on. It intended to focus on the voices of Indigenous artists as individuals responding to the here and now, and challenge people’s perceptions of what it means to be an Indigenous person. What was also important about the publication was that it focused on the diversity of contemporary Indigenous identity, and brought forward issues that are not often addressed from an Indigenous Australian perspective, such as Indigenous identity, feminist discourse and queer identity. Ultimately, I am proud that Blak Wave
what was also important about the project was that it connected the voices of indigenous artists to the domain of contemporary artistic expression and did not necessarily follow a familiar agenda in doing so‌
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set a benchmark for the future of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander arts and cultural expression taking a more experimental approach and opening up a dialogue as a starting point for a new journey in the Indigenous arts sector. The next generation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander artists is emerging, and they continue to take pride in the rich traditions of Indigenous Australian cultures, and use new and diverse ways to explore Indigenous identity. I am optimistic that there will be more Indigenous leaders, curators, and behind-the-scenes-people in the arts if Indigenous and non-Indigenous artists and arts practitioners continue learning, sharing knowledge and working together. As a young Indigenous person in the sector, one of the most valuable pieces of advice that I have been given is to try not to know everything at once, or to aim for a direct outcome, but to be willing to start any project or interaction with a discussion, and then go from there. The more we take the time to listen to each other as well as share stories and ideas, the more we can continue to achieve positive and exciting things.
Tahjee Moar is a descendant of the Meriam/Barkindji/Malyangapa people. She has recently completed a Bachelor of Art Theory at the College of Fine Arts at the University of New South Wales. Tahjee is based in Sydney as a Gallery Educator at the Art Gallery of New South Wales and an Indigenous Art Consultant at the University of Technology, Sydney Gallery.
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sketchy times
Penning the finer points of architecture. imogene tudor university of new south wales
Buildings are slow beasts. Stone feet are anchored into unseen earth, with metal, glass, concrete and timber providing shelters, homes and aspirations. As an architect, I spend my work days locked in this embrace; years pass from conception to the first turn of the key in a front door. Contrary to popular belief though, I spend very little of this time thinking about the big picture of a building; the hero shot as we call it. The demands of a building, from gas inlet points to weather seals for window frames, occupy the lion’s share of my creative energies. The complexities of these minutia, also contrary to expectations, elevate the mundane into the realm of art. As the renowned Modernist Architect Mies van der Rohe put it, ‘God is in the details.’ In my spare time — especially when I travel — I sketch. Sketching is another slow process and one that I use to guide my observations of the world around me — searching for God in another architect’s details. The finished drawing is a by-product of the thought process; a record of a moment in time and space. By forcing myself to slow down, to pause and observe with the focus required of me, I can document a scene with unknown depths of understanding. I seek to understand through time, understand through touch, and understand through smell, heat, discomfort, eye contact and curiosity. The drawing is not the outcome, but a tool to focus my observation and enforce a new, much slower pace. The following collection of sketches were made in Rome, Johannesburg, Marseilles, Hanoi and Hoi An over the past two years. They range from one of the world’s most recognisable buildings, the Colosseum in Rome, to a street vendor’s banana pancake stand on the streets of small-town Vietnam. Linking all of these sketches is the physical act of observational drawing. These drawings are time capsules — a freeze frame of a moment in time, place and temperament. In them, my hand has sought to illuminate the page in conversation with the slow beasts around me.
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The Colleseum, Rome (Italy, June 2013) I never considered a circular building could have a ‘back’ facade. This was where the ‘Gladiators’ costumed for the tourist photo trade came to smoke a cigarette and to change into their street clothes when they knocked off for the day.
Office Tower, Johannesburg (South Africa, March 2013) They call Johannesburg the City of Gold after the mines the city is literally and metaphorically built on. While drawing this relentless facade I wondered whether the architect thought about the symbolic implications of one-way gold coloured glass on their modernist office tower.
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UnitĂŠ de Habitation, Marseilles (France, June 2013) I approached the UnitĂŠ with a typical architectural Modernist-loving reverence but was distracted during my sketching by a group of truant school kids pushing each other down the ramps in an abandoned shopping trolley.
Hanoi Street Corner, Hanoi (Vietnam, December 2013) It was December in Hanoi and I was cold, sitting on a restaurant terrace sipping tea to keep warm and get the right angle. I lost myself in the ecosystem that this building supported, if not for frozen fingers, I would have spent hours adding detail of pot plants, street umbrellas, vendors, cars, cat, people, advertising.
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How Vietnamese Coffee Works, Hoi An (Vietnam, December 2013) Vietnamese coffee making is a feat of engineering. Each component shaped and specialised to brew the coffee, capture the drips and contain the heat. Dissecting the coffee maker in drawing felt like I was translating a new language.
How to Make Banana Pancakes, Hoi An (Vietnam, December 2013) The woman making banana pancakes was a force of nature. It was as if her fervour and efficiency had cross-pollinated the food trolley — every inch of that trolley was utilised with items, hanging, balancing, stacked and towering.
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How to Eat Pippi’s on the Street, Hanoi (Vietnam, December 2014) Squatting on an undersized stool on a roundabout next to a highway, we ate pippi’s and drank beer. The place felt surprisingly intimate. The overhanging tree and the roar of the highway, by design or chance, had created an outdoor room.
This is Bangkok (Thailand, June 2013) It was oppressively hot just before a colossal thunderstorm. We found ourselves lost in Bangkok in a red-light district designed for tourists. These are my notes from the moment — concealed but explicit. Concealed only through mass. More: layers of plastic, concrete. Doors with dancing women beyond. Looming infrastructure. Concrete carapice huddled against the impending storm.
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seeking the hidden The bare bones of filmmaking. adrian goodman victorian college of the arts
I once accidentally sliced the outer side of my forearm wide open on the edge of a sheet of metal. The flesh peeled back, revealing the bone. Its radiance was alarming. Stunning. I stood and stared at it, mesmerised by a beauty at once so foreign, so other, yet so intimate and true. Time stopped around me. There was no blood yet — it was just me and my fluorescent bone, facing one another, sharing a new nakedness. That is what my movies aspire to be: that sharp edge of metal. The viewer is invited to relate to whatever emerges, as they can. I make my films with myself as the audience, in the belief that our bones all look quite similar, even if some can’t bear to look when they are exposed. We can have films as mere distraction, as confection, which of course I can enjoy sometimes too. But I have little interest in making those films. To me, it’s about making films that engage with the complexities of our inner worlds: truths that we may be hiding, even from ourselves. The construction of my films can be viewed along the same lines. My work grows around the skeleton — my unconscious mind. As I play in the writing phase, the skeleton is revealed to me symbolically, cryptically. The story that emerges is not my own in a literal narrative sense, but it is very much mine in its emotional landscapes. At this stage, the skeleton is not fully understood, even by myself. It is separate from me by virtue of it being so close. It is the essence: still whole, and yet to be analysed. We must cut deep to see our own bones. While directing, I analyse that skeleton, trying to understand it: how what I’ve written expresses certain preoccupations and ideas. It’s this kind of self-analysis that informs how the flesh and ultimately the skin must look. I follow those discoveries as boldly as I can and eventually discover what this new creature — this film — will look and sound like. What I end up with are my deepest preoccupations, formed from my life experiences, represented symbolically in a story that takes them into extreme dimensions. My films tend to involve characters 42
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in extremis, beyond the realm of morality, and have explored themes of obsession, desire, and the ecstasy and tragedy of romantic love. They delve into questions of identity and the possibility of true freedom. I expose myself to potential ridicule in search of greater truths, and I believe that that kind of freedom is important for an artist. I’m braver when making my films than I am in life. The drive to destruction can be the greatest creative impulse: it’s the power to overthrow the banal, the bigoted consensus, the sensible moderation, the suspended satisfaction. It’s taking back the moment and fighting to feel alive, like we’re not just puppets shuffling around till we drop dead all old and sick, and wondering if this is all there ever was. The artform that most urgently harnesses that spirit, and that I draw on most for inspiration, is music. Rock n’ roll, punk, and styles that don’t yet have a name. Anything wild and brave. The Birthday Party, The Stooges, Jay Reatard, as well as friends Simon Eddy, and the guys at Fabric Astronaut Records, among others. It first took hold of me in school. I was one of those kids who was pretty restless. I got up to mischief because I think I just hated being bored. When I formed a rock band at 15 with my closest friend Nathan and other schoolmates — just weeks after having first picked up the bass — I was hooked. As we went on, our music was increasingly about experimentation. Doing whatever we felt, and resisting any limitations or categorisations. We were kicking against the banality and pressures of teenage life. What we played wasn’t exactly punk, but our ethos was. We chased our own inspiration, and we felt free. I found myself scribbling short stories, studying philosophy, and writing and directing a little bit of theatre. My approach to each drew on the same kind of attitude. It was curiosity but also rebellion, an unwillingness to follow any rule that didn’t resonate deeply within me. Meanwhile, the band’s music turned increasingly avant-garde and psychedelic. Then and now, the fearlessly creative and monumentally talented Nathan has stood as my greatest inspiration in both life and art.
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It wasn’t until 2011 that I saw a movie that truly changed my life — a documentary about a punk rocker named Better Than Something: Jay Reatard. At that time I was being chewed up, destroyed, by Nathan’s suicide. The way I was, I knew I couldn’t go on living. I was neither dead nor alive, and I was hurting those I loved. Joining him in death felt like the sweetest refuge. In the cinema, watching that film about a man we’d both admired, I was struck with what I needed to rediscover: that attitude. That spirit of rock n’ roll that I so admired in Nathan and that he always sparked in me. I would make my movie as wild and free as I wanted to, and I would do it for us. Making my first feature film, Wakey Wakey, was the most arduous but most rewarding act of my life, and it was my love for my friend, and my determination to honour him, that got me through it. Punk rock, Better Than Something, and ultimately Wakey Wakey — they saved my life. If I think about it, it’s that punk attitude that led me to be a filmmaker in the first place. To that you could add stubbornness, sensitivity, luck, love, loss, and a whole lot of suffering. I say stubbornness first because I think that’s what it takes to resist the world’s push towards conformity and boredom, and to retain a kind of childlike playfulness. A child takes play very seriously, and so does an artist. Whether it’s expressed through film, music, or anything else, my creative drive has always come from a hunger to explore and feel free. I’ve been lucky to have had the opportunity to maintain that in more than a superficial way. Many don’t get that chance. It’s led me to continually discover and rediscover whatever path feels right, and to follow what I love. It wasn’t always filmmaking. Firstly, I was interested in writing. I remember the moment as a small child when I realised that each book in the library was written by an actual person, and that person was called an author. That blew my mind. There was magic connected to the idea that someone had created something like that from nothing. During my Bachelor of Arts I wrote and directed a stage play, which played at Melbourne University’s Mudfest, and later I began to adapt it into a longer version. The project started to shift into a screenplay,
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but still, I was keen to be the one to realise it. My mission became clear: I would need to learn how to direct films. Soon after, our band broke up and my first great romantic love was on the rocks. All was chaos. I wrote my script frenetically, checked myself into film school (first AFTRS and then the VCA), and I’ve been making movies ever since, with a little music on the side. I mentioned suffering, and of course, pain comes in many forms, both emotional and physical. Emotional pain has been the biggest driver of my work: the need to honour the person, the experience; to express it, and to transform it into art. I’ve also had a headache that has lasted for over a decade, and I’d say that all of my work draws on this experience in some way — none more directly than in my short film Migraine and Michael: A Love Story. It’s a catharsis, but also an affirmation of the experience of life through art, a kind of transcendence through sublimation. I’ve found that pain can encumber a person but can also embolden. It gives you the fuel of anger to draw on, and tunes you into the absurdity of the world. Pain makes you desperate for release, which transforms into hunger for an extreme truth. It makes you an outsider to the world, and even to your own body. But it also makes you an insider to the pain that reverberates around the world.
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in my element Loretta Lizzio finds her Eden. eric brotchie leiden university
If you type the letters ‘Loretta Lizzio’ into
some more on these, and about what’s been
Google images, which I urge you to do,
happening in Loretta’s life since. No, in fact,
the first thing you’ll confront is a wealth of
I’ll just ask her via email. She looks nice on
creativity, some illustrations, and a lot of
Google. She’ll be helpful, I just know it.
sensuous photography. Some words might
‘I grew up on a farm in North Queensland,’
spring to your mind like ‘indie’, ‘cool’, or
Loretta writes, after I’ve sent her a few
‘chic’, or you might perversely arrange the
pertinent questions. ‘At first of course, it had a
term ‘hipster’ in your mind. Although plenty
huge influence on my work; I drew a lot of girls
of people might argue against this last one,
on horseback with long flowing hair, insects and
no-one will be able to argue that this person
other animals. It was all very naïve and pretty.’
you’ve just googled is not incredibly talented.
My mind drifts to those whimsical scenes
Hailing from Queensland, Loretta has shifted
from the film Saving Mr Banks, with P.L. Travers
between cattle country in the North and the
gallivanting across country Queensland, then
mild lilting breezes of the Gold Coast, and
returns to Loretta’s Tumblr. Loretta’s work is
she’s now thriving in Melbourne’s harsh
no longer naïve, but you could definitely argue
southern climes. Working for street
it’s still very pretty. Briefly reviewing a cross-
brand Element Eden, she’s the archetypal
section of what’s in front of me, I am caught
professional artist; making the most of her
by an evident theme that runs through the
talent to bring in the bacon, and pushing
works; a preference for timber and earthy
herself to the limit with everything in her
ochres, and muddy yellows to offset greyscale
busy calendar.
sketching. It’s faint, but I can tell some of
Loretta is no stranger to Overcoat. She appeared
the farm has embedded itself across the
in Issue Two: Work, two years ago. As hard as
illustrations: ‘I still enjoy drawing these things,
it is to believe, in that issue Loretta was still in
however I want to strive for more when it
school on the Gold Coast, with graphic design
comes to my technique,’ Loretta has written.
classes providing the background to her series
‘I have discovered my love for oils and am
of alluring images pencilled on skateboards.
enjoying a richer, darker colour palette.’
In those illustrations I can’t see any particular
Since her brief first appearance in Overcoat,
signs of the tropical north, but there may be
Loretta has completed a Diploma in Graphic
a few dusty hues that look mildly like the
Design, been the Gold Coast Institute of
outback; maybe even the blood sweat and
Technology’s Student of the Year (2012),
tears of growing up on the land. Perhaps
completed a solo art show, moved to
through some further analysis and some
Melbourne, started working for global street
in-depth research I’ll be able to tease out
brand Element, and continues to push creative 56
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boundaries everywhere she goes. ‘I am still
I think jealously that the sort of nonsense
going through a trial and error stage and this
I dream about could not possibly be made
will last a long while,’ she says. ‘I have endless
into a viable occupation. I mean, it’s just not
amounts to learn.’ Now she’s in Melbourne,
inspiring, dreaming about having a holiday
her work is morphing and expanding into
booked, and then not being able to find
new horizons. ‘I am still focusing on the same
your keys on the way to the airport.
theme and subject matter; hands, portraiture,
But nevertheless, people like Loretta do,
mythology, but the high level of incredible
in many ways have the talent and skill to
art has helped me to raise the bar a little,
make what they dream a marketable and
and that’s a huge part of the reason I moved
sought-after commodity. This is no truer than
here. Everything here is so inspiring it is
in her work with Element Eden, who, she
sometimes overwhelming.’
says, have been incredibly supportive, after
As I browse Loretta’s Instagram, I begin to
randomly poaching her for a modelling job,
see the broader horizons she’s talking about.
after seeing her in a friend’s music video.
Mythologies have been widened to include
‘They wanted me to be captured for their next
complex belief systems like voodooism,
winter range. After meeting the Element ladies
animism and paganism. I notice a particular
we got to know each other a little more, and
talent for form which manifests best in nudes
they discovered I did art. After that I was
and portraiture. One particular image that
invited to join the team.’ It’s probably quite
strikes me is that of a queen-of-the-damned
a rare and strange way to get offered a job,
figure, skeletal and seductive, crowned with
I think, but to be fair, in the current job market,
a skull, and emerging from a sash of roses.
it’s far more honest, and far less ridiculous
It is a complex work not just because of
than everyone’s favourite way of getting an
its powerful imagery, but because of its
interview: key selection criteria. Luckily the
cross-pollination of a variety of spiritual and
fairy tale didn’t end after a honeymoon period;
historical elements. Loretta explains that
Loretta, who continues to design for Element,
whimsy was never an intended focus of her
says it’s as much about the people as the work.
work, but just a natural outlet of a mixture
‘I love Element Eden and what they stand for.
of interests and ideas: ‘I guess it’s my love
I think that’s why this has all worked out so
of adventure and the vivid dreams I have.
well. We are like a little family,’ she types
I’ve always been fascinated by history, religion,
gushingly. ‘I know this is also a job and it won’t
poetry and music. I think the best way for me
last forever, but while it does I am completely
to get whatever it is I am feeling out there,
stoked to be working for such an amazing
is through something not of this world.’
brand with an incredible team of ladies.’
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The day-to-day of illustrators working with
imagined.’ I wonder if that’s a view held by
big brands might be hard to access for some
other illustrators she knows, if she’s spotted
people (read: people like me). What do they
any characteristics in her that are mirrored in
do all day? Do they literally draw things and
them: ‘You have to be open and understanding
submit them to their bosses, like most of us
of others; what they need and why. I think it’s
would hand up a report or something? I realise
special to be creating something that excites
I have no idea, so I have quizzed Loretta on
someone, as long as they meet you half way
the finer details, pun not intended. I find out
and allow you to stay true to your style.’
it is generally an organic process, and that
I picture the well-mediated tantrums that
her higher-ups basically let her get on with it:
happen between designers and clients all the
‘Although they may give me a theme in regards
time, and pitch a question about how that is
to a design, they always encourage me, and
for business. The answer is predictable and
actually prefer it when I complete it within
up-front: ‘It really drives me mad when
my own style. They give me so much freedom
someone asks you to do a job that is so
and put so much trust in me. They have really
obviously not up your alley and wants to take
helped to boost my confidence.’ I ponder
complete control of the design. It is offensive.
this for a while, and realise that confidence
I refuse to work with people like that.’
is something that is perhaps holding a lot of
Oh to be in a spot as an artist where you can
artists back. ‘It’s a massive compliment,’ says
refuse work?! I think. But it is the sign of both
Loretta, ‘being recognised in any small way
a valuable artist and a true professional that
for doing something I love so much.’
they stand up for their beliefs and develop their
Although Loretta has done most of the work
reputation on their own terms. Nevertheless,
to answer this question for me already,
Loretta has obviously been on the receiving
I ask if it takes a special type of person to
end of overbearing clients in the past, and has
be a professional illustrator. The answer is
a suggestion for the way to get around it. It
a roundabout yes: ‘It takes a little artistic
may be easier for people as easy-going as her,
maturity,’ she says. ‘It has been a long process
but harder for others: ‘You need to be a little
for me to come to this point; where I can take
down to earth and lose the ego. Otherwise
direction and ideas regarding something I
you will never meet your client half way.’
am about to create. Illustrators are unique in
And yet, unlike other people who might be,
that they have an ability to take an idea from
or in fact have been described as ‘gorgeously
someone else, or multiple people separately,
dedicated and stunningly talented’, Loretta is
and bring it all together to create something
annoyingly humble, acknowledging the best
even better then what they or their client had
is yet to come. ‘I don’t feel I have achieved
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anything mentionable on paper other than my own personal goals. I guess one thing that I am proud of is when I attempt a new technique and it works pretty well, so I get more confident pulling it off.’ Going one step further than humbleness, and straight onto awesomeness, she even adds that her creative journey is not just her own, and that others have had a big role to play in helping her push the boundaries. ‘Little stories that are written about me in magazines or on blogs I have always looked to for inspiration.’ Good, I think, it makes sitting here in the cold all worthwhile. ‘So where will Loretta Lizzio be in 5 years’ time?’ I finish with, realising that in spite of how glib this question seems, it’s actually a really good one, because of the unreliable nature of the professional artist’s career path. Loretta seems to agree that it is a good question, which is a good answer. ‘I have no idea. I am completely happy now, and being focused on the present. I have goals in mind to reach and no doubt that I will get there. Hopefully I will be doing the same in 5 - 10 years’ time with a smile on my face, a little more experience and knowledge under my belt and with a whole new set of goals in mind! The journey is endless.’
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moths to a flame A well wrapped sub-culture sunny nyssen photography studies college
I’ve always been drawn to observing sub-culture. If you look beneath the surface of our daily surrounds you can see worlds within worlds. Everyday objects and scenes that form part of the urban environment are ubiquitous and simultaneously conspicuous. Nowhere is this more apparent than the humble kebab van. Not to be confused with the latest food trend afflicting Melbourne — food trucks — kebab vans are permanent structures usually affixed to an car wash or petrol station, in some form of urban symbiosis During the day the vans are closed for business and invisible to the average passerby. As soon as dusk hits the vans slowly awaken from their daytime slumber and light up the night sky in an array of flashing, blinking neon. And like moths to a flame, the nightly crowd of shift workers, taxi drivers and inebriated revelers flock to their favourite van for their fill of meaty goodness. Run mostly by Middle-Eastern immigrant men, the vans have a cultural life of their own. Some stock homemade, freshly brewed, exotic teas and serve as a traditional meeting place. Others offer Halal meat especially imported to appease their local Muslim customers. And yet others are revered for their quick salt and protein fix — the mythical hangover cure or preventative measure after a big night out. After all, kebabs aren’t known for their nutritional benefits. Traveling around the streets of Melbourne I was surprised by the number of vans in every neighbourhood. It’s an odd feeling to truly notice something for the first time after spending a lifetime passing it, seeing it, ignoring it. It was hard to miss. Next time you visit a car wash, look for the silent nocturnal beast recessing from the sunshine, waiting patiently for its mysterious night time rendezvous. These series of images provide a snapshot of that nocturnal world. To the casual observer this alternate world could be seen as fleeting and transient. In fact it is a place that is in operation during our darkest hours, seven days a week, all year long. For the humble kebab van owner, their van is their second home. For some of them it’s a workplace but for most it’s a way of life. I can’t help but wonder what they think of the surface world, the world in which we live our sedate, daily lives. 72
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double cross
The life and times of a double agent. marishka cross curtin university / swinburne university
For over a decade, I have been living the life of a double agent. Leading two distinct, demanding and seemingly disparate jobs. I’ve been doing well in each of these and achieving success at both, despite their contrasts. At a very high level the differences are significant. Delve a little deeper and gaping chasms start to appear. Whether it’s day vs night, punk vs establishment, community vs hierarchy, corporate conservative dress and codes vs counter culture fashion and attitude, balancing the two requires double agent status. One is done high in a tech marble steel and glass building that can be seen from any vantage point on the Melbourne sky line…the other is likely, literally, to be underground. In one life I am Marishka Cross, Associate Director — National Markets. By day, I work full-time as Associate Director in a global professional services firm. It’s a fast-paced, highly competitive environment that can be extremely political, and mentally and physically stressful. Often, my days are spent in what we call a ‘war room’, full of multidisciplinary professionals, assigned to the pursuit. They can come from Australia, the US, UK, India or anywhere that we have offices and capability. As the largest of the professional service firms, this means pretty much everywhere. As a senior member of the firm’s markets team, my job is to coach executives, directors and partners on strategy, tactics and deployment for key accounts and major bids. Here everyone talks in zeros. I don’t work on anything less than a million dollar opportunity. My job is to identify, unify and then drive them to win. Winning is everything. My performance is measured on success — and performance matters when the size of the prize is a potential multi-million dollar deal. In this role I use many of the qualifications and skills I’ve acquired over some 20 years working in marketing, journalism, business development, strategy and research. I am here to bring the client’s perspective, to help understand and then design the ‘solution’ they are looking for, in a way that stands out from other competing firms. 84
The environment can be stifling so at times I entertain myself and find ways to get a little more creative in my role. Most recently I dyed my hair an aqua blue. This raised eyebrows, and there’s occasional discomfort in the glass-panelled lift ride to the marble lobby, but generally I’m accepted. If you compare this, however, to my other life, it hardly touches the sides. My creativity gets unleashed at night. In my other life I’m Mish’Chief: Techno DJ and founder of INSTINCT Events My other life happens after dark, and gets really active over weekends. In this life I am a successful Melbourne DJ, and promoter. As Mish’Chief I play almost every week in clubs, at promoter parties and festivals. I have been honoured to share a line up with some of my idols: talents that humble me. Last year this included Boris Brejcha and Max Cooper. I mix music — samples, tracks, instruments or just energy signatures that have been tweaked until you feel and then hear the sound. To me, the possible combinations and creations are endless and wonderful. Because of my style — staunch/deep and twisted rhythms — I tend to play late sets, often starting my gig at 3 or 4am. I’ve occasionally asked for an early slot for the opportunity to be creative and play a different style (one I also enjoy) — slower, harmonic, melodic, beautiful, sad music. But my more recognised sound is staunch, powerful techno and progressive — tougher rhythms, and a deeper/twisted beat with dark sexy vocals. This sound is often more ‘full on’ than what I’d say most of the people I work with would enjoy (or stand). My latest creative outlet, and what’s become nearly a full time role in itself, is my work running INSTINCT Events and other club/crew parties. These have included a collaboration with the solar empire team for the Eureka Sky High Party on the 89th floor — simply mad! My biggest gig was main stage at Earthcore’s 20th Anniversary Festival last year. At what ended up being peak hour on the Friday night, before Ann Clue and Boris Brejcha. The sound from the decks was massive. For the first time I felt ‘little’ approaching the
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equipment. I felt dwarfed by the sheer size of the stage, the space, and the several-thousand-strong crowd! Performance also matters in this ‘job.’ You are only as good as your last gig. There’s an expectation once you are established that you will always deliver an epic set. I keep my creative mind on and my ego and pressure in check by trying not to let this sort of ‘day job’ pressure get to me, and loving the music so much that it supersedes tiny thoughts. There is magic in music. The wonder of its endless expression — just getting swept up in the energy of it all — is where I find unlimited creative potential and an excitement that transcends lost sleep, or the need to be ‘something’. So what does my life look like to most? Mission impossible… Depending on how and where you met me, many — in fact most — people think I only do one of the above. It’s unusual for the worlds to collide. Only my close friends know that I do all of the above, pretty much all of the time. For me, sound has a language and it paints a story. This is my approach to mixing — partly because I’m not very ‘technical’, though my skills are technically tight. Perhaps it’s because my day job is so structured and rigid that I have a very loose and emotive approach to music and mixing. Music has a colour, a picture and a vibe, not just a sound. When I hear a track I love, it usually generates images in my head and it is these images that I take as cues for the audioscape I want to paint. My favourite place as a punter is to be losing it on the dance floor. Great DJs should create a feeling and make a connection with others when they play. This feeling should be strong enough to communicate with their punters, to evoke a response; tell a story. It’s what old school ravers (yes I’m one) describe as the ‘journey’. Getting this right is Nirvana to me, and while there’s no denying that while some gigs are bigger than others, the ‘factor of size’ fades away when the music takes hold. I’m gradually getting to spend more time with music, and finding more opportunities to play and connect with others who share my
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passion. Whether it’s collaborating on a track released online or a mix that’s featured on UK Radio, the world is opening up and the things I might have dreamed of have started to take on far more possible positions. I now have my own radio segment on DNA Radio that airs monthly in Europe and Australia. I enjoy being a guest on local Melbourne shows like Kiss FM, and feel really connected to a global community. I admit that there are days I pinch myself. I wonder, is it for real? How is it happening? And yes … how will I keep the balance? I don’t have the luxury of ‘wasting time’. Balancing the two is a massive commitment and takes more energy than I thought I was capable of giving. Time can be my enemy. I might work 50 hours in the office, and if it’s a busy DJ week I can play several live gigs, feature on a radio show and deliver 4+ hours of podcasts, demos or other requested compilation pieces to various radio or promoter crews. Playing two live gigs and a couple of radio slots will require 50 new tracks. I always play fresh mixes, not because I don’t enjoy going back to a sound but because when you find that track, you gotta play it — it’s an itch! To find these tracks takes time and some sort of system — as loose or weird as mine may be to others, it works pretty well and I pick up anywhere between 20 and 150 tracks in a month. Finding a quality tune can be like searching for a four-leaf clover. It can be a slow process and one that raises self-doubt that you may have lost the ability to ‘pick a great track’… until you find one! I have tried to bring my two worlds together. For instance, I’ve tried bringing my music to work, but the two don’t mesh. It resulted in some funny situations when, in the professional and industrious ‘cube farm’ floor, with my headphones on and music turned up, I have forgotten where I am and been a little carried away. Once, I’d just returned from a holiday where I’d been missing my decks. I was catching up on the new tunes I’d not been able to enjoy while I was away, and was lost in the music. A track built, then broke, then reached a crescendo, and I stood up, yanking headphones out of
Photo: Ivanna From Russia With Love 94
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their hole, arm raised in the air, fist clenched, and yelling ‘yes!’ A little too late, I noticed the confused eyes and stares from my colleagues who had obviously not heard the first part of whatever had moved me to respond so absolutely. There were other times when, sitting at my desk, I would break into tears when I’d discover an amazing track — only to be asked what I was upset about. I would have to come up with some lame excuse because if I were to explain that I found electronic music so moving, I would get the ‘you’re crazy’ look. Other elements have been easier to integrate, despite what some of the dress code guidelines might advise. I guess they can see that I’m living the values of being my authentic self: having a go and still performing. The future After some 10 years running parties and nights I have more recently found my heart and my final creative outlet in INSTINCT Events. This role as promoter has offered me new and interesting creative areas to explore. INSTINCT is intimate and rocking. They are not events but gatherings. Attendance runs at around 300 per party, over an 8 or more hour period and will involve many elements including talent (DJ/VJ), plus concept development and execution for every facet of the event, right down to the event artwork, which is a feature in and of itself. I host around 6 INSTINCTs in one year. These are underground parties catering to a certain community that loves a sound, a vibe and attitude. I started and still run these parties for people who know that magic can and does happen when all the ingredients are right. With love behind this project there is a focus and a desire to really get each element right. It is in the desire to create an environment and a feeling that delivers an experience — the moments of connection with our spirit and happiness. What I’ve learned along the way Is there really a pot of gold at the rainbow? Does a work/life balance actually exist? Last year was brutal for me to the point that working
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a 50-hour week in the office seemed totally reasonable, given I was regularly doing 70 – 80 hour weeks. This sort of intensity, plus all my DJ and hosting commitments had me running at an almost impossible schedule. I look back at those weeks and months and wonder how the hell I did it! I know a lot was to do with an inner fire: my passion and defiance, where giving up is not an option. I’d just as easily wither and die without music and art as I would without the seemingly needed things we acquire when money is good — aka high salary corporate life. Allowing music into my life, and actively pursuing it, has provided clarity on what really matters to me. But recently I decided to take time out to allow myself some freedom to move, think and be. I now work four days a week at the office job — and even if this extends to a 40-hour week — in comparison it’s nothing. With this time that I have given back to myself, I experience more free thought, and more creative thought. Creativity is a mindset, but living it requires some balancing and a sustainable view to making it work somehow. Where you put your focus is where you put your heart, and where you will find your happiness.
www.soundcloud.com/mishchief/ www.facebook.com/Instinctpeople
Photo (right): Jurassic Melbourne. All other photos (unless noted): Scott Sanders.
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