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# 001 MAY 2014

















Willow Vincent

Becca Hinchliffe




Jodie Campbell

Daniella Golden



Owen Phoebe Harry



Reed Salmon Cooke


Welcome to our line issue of LUST

first onmagazine.

LUST magazine is new magazine, which inspires and promotes young talent. All contributors are under the age of 25 and are thriving within their chosen fields. LUST is looking individuals and are starting out, up in the creative stone towards the

to help promote collectives who and on their way world. A stepping creative industry,

We hope you enjoy the first issue, and hope to continue more as a quarterly online magazine. Let us know what you think. Facebook: Think you have got the or know someone that Send in your work


I do not own any of the images included in this magazine, they are the right of the inidividuals involved unless otherwise stated.

Cover Image: Harry Cooke


“I often find myself standing in front of a view I’ve seen and shot many times before, but every time there’s always something new to add. No matter how many times a subject has been shot there’s always that extra angle, technique or process to be added. For me though the pro-

cess of painting the shot with the camera has always been key. Sometimes Ill set up but framing a shot is impossible because it is so dark, so I take a test shot which is a starting point and gives me a basic idea of angle, exposure etc. From then on its all about works best, I feel that

too many photographers have the technique but lack in what really gives a photo an “edge” and one of the most important things to create that is composition. One thing I try to create is a strongdepth of field because this is another thing often lacked in seascapes especially.


This can often prove difficult because the sea is flat so a strong foreground and composition is key. One way I feel I make my photos different is the lack of post editing. To me it’s all about the buzz of getting it there and then. People often ask me what I’ve

used on Photoshop or lightroom and apart from cropping and resizing there’s nothing at all. This is because unlike my commercial work, I am not after that 100% perfect shot with my fine art prints but more of a raw shot. I would say the aim of

my fine art seascapes is to produce an image, which helps emphasize the beauty of the location, and the time it was shot. Like a lot of artists my favorite work often differs to that of the viewer but nonetheless I hope to share all my work with as many people as possible.”




Should Miley Cyrus take some responsibility for female apathy towards the development of Women’s Rights? Is feminism a dying cause due to developing cultural norms? The recent media backlash surrounding Miley Cyrus’s ‘Wrecking ball’ and Robin Thicke’s misogynistic ‘Blurred Lines’ music video, both suggest that we still live in a society that applauds the objectification of women. These portray a view that without sexual appeal women are irrelevant because power, social-standing and wider appreciation come from image and sexuality. This message is being instilled to a whole generation of young girls, making patriarchy further ingrained in a web of social norms and understandings, suggesting change may be difficult in the future. This is embodied by my sister, a 15 year old who, being deeply interested in pop culture, accepts such representations of women without reflection. Does this in itself undermine the work done by rights organisations as girls

seem more interested in the size of the gap between their thighs than furthering the cause of ‘women’s rights’?

The portrayal of women in the media could lead young women to think that without sexual appeal they lack power. In the 21st century this cultural portrayal of women moves the focus to the sexual aspect of femininity, rather than the feminism that was the byword of our mothers and grandmother’s generations; with many role models in politics, the media, music scene and therefore young girls viewing Feminism (with a capital F) with contempt. These views suggest that many women take their rights for granted and downplay the need for further campaigning for equality domestically and internationally because the emphasis on what is important about women is skewed.

In fact the pre- determined gender roles stated in Bourdieu’s in ‘Masculine Domination’ are thus legitimized by women openly marketing themselves or by the music industry, for example, using overt sexuality as a marketing tool for the ‘white male gaze’ in order to sell records without considering the implications of this on their younger market. Constant exposure to these views leads these ideas to become further ingrained. It has been 95 years since women were granted full suffrage and the right to vote in the UK. This is a cause our ‘foremothers’ died and starved for in the hope that one day women might be on an equal footing to men and perhaps thought of as something more than an ‘inanimate sex object’ or ‘baby oven.’ You would have thought that nearly 100 years later

we should be closer to this goal. However as Miley Cyrus and her fellow ‘twerkers’ reveal, women still have a long way to go before they are no longer regarded as sexual objects and if a lack of interest remains I can only assume that the rights of women will start to be degraded once again. I think that the exploitation of women in the music industry could be analogous within a broader social milieu. The way society views women is argued by theorists such as Bourdieu or McKinnon to be institutionalised and reinforced constantly and subtly as a form of ‘Habitus’. If male patriarchy can’t be removed from society then there is only so far that conventions such as CEDAW can go. This could be because, as Bunch argues, laws don’t trickle down to people they stay within the male dominated, legal sector of the state. In order for anything to actually change for women it is societal and global norms that need to be addressed, whether it is the objectification of women in the media or the practice of forced genital mutilation, neither will end until women are enlightened from their ‘false consciousness’ which Enloe argues is pertinent

for the furthering of ‘women rights’ and equality. Yes, the women’s rights movement may have come a long way since the days of the Pankhurst’s, with women being considered instrumental in economic, business and social sectors. Despite this even, powerful, successful woman are ridiculed by the media on their looks. For example Angela Merkel’s dress sense is an important talking point in the media. Hence, reinforcing a belief for many women, regardless of her achievements, that success is dependent on appearance as ‘she is a failure if she is not beautiful’.Does this suggest that rights have a lower status to other considerations about women in our perpetually masculinised system?

If we in the ‘west’ are looking to be an example of a society of emancipated and respected women then the music industry and the media alone prove that we are still one that also champions the degradation and sexualisation of women. Sexism and the abuse of women’s rights are global problems and ones that women themselves should seek to reinforce.

How can we expect to encourage the equal treatment of women internationally and prevent sex trafficking and sexual exploitation of women, when even in the so called ‘developed’ western world we encourage and even celebrate the objectification of our own bodies? The Human Rights Act and CEDAW do little to support those wishing to address actual social issues outside of basic civil and political rights. Whilst some women rely on the European Convention on Human Rights, for example, in relation to illegal abortion and rape, generally protection does not go far enough because the rights are defined too narrowly with a focus on state violation. However women also need protecting from the more basic cultural ills of everyday society, yet we could use cultural means to ‘awaken women’

In my view these issues are not black and white, thus should we question whether women have achieved basic equality? And if we do, we need to keep striving for rights domestically and internationally or we must accept that our campaigning can only achieve basic political equality due to cultural distractions such as the importance of a woman’s thigh gap rather than a perceived need to be able to identify where Syria is on the map? At least the media hype about Miley Cyrus has brought these issues into the limelight and the fact that they are being discussed suggests women are having their “consciousness raised”. If women are empowered by such actions this can only have positive effects so in this sense maybe Miley’s exploitative act was for the greater good in the cause for ‘women rights’. As Enloe states, that staying, “intellectually curious” is “what keeps one taking seriously… the experiences, actions and ideas of women and girls. Take away an explicit interest in femininities, and it will be impossible to develop…”

jennifer pavlick



Here this selection of my work is inspired by architecture and influences from both past and present artists. It explores shape, form and space, within these three categories I have looked into abstraction through simplification of line and description of both positive and negative space, along with the relationship between positive and negative space. For me colour was irrelevant and was seen to be a distraction from these clean pure forms being created. Within my works I have also played with the idea of the impossible, engaging the viewer further by creating pieces that feel as if they are balancing on a needle point and ready to fall, in doing this it emphasises ideas of weight and tension within the pieces.



A MEMOIR OF AN INSOMNIAC There are reasons why I suffer from insomnia. I take comfort in thinking that these reasons are the source of my problem; I am not to blame, the fault lies with them. Control is what I lack; they attack my sleep, they have no mercy. Perhaps writing these reasons down on paper will be therapeutic. An answer may be found this way, a self-made remedy to aid my inability to sleep. This bed I lie on greets me into this night. It appears to be a friend, with its velvet soft blanket that brushes my body,

but everything is an attacker of my sleep. I begin to write. The pencil scratches at the white paper, grey lines begin to form my words, form my voice. Writers of the past have suffered from insomnia: a connection can be made between creativity and lack of sleep which is why I choose to write now. F.Scott Fitzgerald sai d, “The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to�, and I agree; yet I still do try. The time is 23:47; the digital clock flashes the numbers in a vivid bold red. My eyes throb due to the

intense light. I write this to document my insomnia, so you may understand the demons that haunt me, the reasons why I sleep so little.

Reason one: thoughts

Thoughts are the enemy of slumber. An intrusion on the minds desire to rest; they loom, linger, and disturb my ill-fated sleep. Thoughts are leeches that suck sleep from my soul throughout the night, they stick onto my skin, reluctant to let go, they resist against my plea. The friction of their

grasp is a violent tug that awakes me further, a sudden suction that shocks. My mind feels heavy, it aches with their presence. Perhaps they are frustrated beings themselves? An army of thoughts that fight as one against their similar enemy. A march can be heard. Strong footsteps pound on my mind, a ricochet that resounds throughout my body, from my head to the tips of my fingers. They seek escape from the boundaries of my skull. Escape these thoughts. Reach slumber and laugh at the thoughts that mock you. I once visited the surgery about my insomnia. I sat on a clean white chair and asked the doctor why can I not sleep, to which he said, “Your mind is too full�. I turn on my side. Why do they continue to irritate me? Do you think they will climb over the walls of my skull? Fall out of my head onto the pillow that feels warm and supple on my face? Run free and cause havoc across my bed? Maybe I should surrender now, let this army of thoughts scorn my alert, aware mind. They will take me hostage; shrieks and screams will penetrate my ears, shouts of hatred, they will protest against their secluded existence; a protest against their life as prisoners of my mind. While these

thoughts have been created, I still lie here, exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. The scent of lavender hits my nostrils, I sprayed this aroma over my sheets before I tried to rest, it was meant to soothe. Unsuccessful. Why did I purchase another gimmick in the hope of a peaceful night? The realisation that I have been thinking causes panic; I have wasted more time. Sleep has been lost due to foolish thoughts.

Reason two: noise.

There are noises of the night that reach out, wrap and suffocate my existence. They glide over the waves of silence, like an elegant eagle that scouts for a helpless prey. When they have found the defenceless victim, they bounce off the walls, a game of hopscotch that echoes and provokes. Noises remind me of playground bullies, sinister young children that torment others; they seclude me from their fun, relish in my grief. Tonight I decided to flee from these bullies in my bedroom; their mission is accomplished, I award them the gold stars that they crave. Maybe they will run back to their classrooms now that playtime is over.

Vanish from my room and learn that you should not bully an insomniac, especially one that is as tired as this. I wander the house to abandon the noises. A grand-father clock stands in the hall, a figure that projects a deep chime at every hour, a sound that penetrates through the paper thin walls, a constant reminder that another hour has passed, and another hour of sleep is lost forever. Pity transmits towards me as I stare at this clock; it towers above and looks down, a watchful God of the night, a source of company, a friend. The darkened chestnut wood feels smooth to the touch, yet the surface chills my fingers and I hesitate. Fragments of gold etched into the clock face gleam and reflect the light of the moon. The light shines through the arched windows of our hallway; it illuminates everything it touches, a hypnotic glow is created. Transfixed on the rebounds of light, I enter a dreamlike state; my imagination is a gentle caress of sympathy, yet it focuses on the sounds I try to block. In this world I hear all the noises of the house amplified to an immense volume. A tap drips in a consistent rhythm, a sound that loiters in my ears; it hovers through the air around

me. The noise is sharp, it echoes a fraction longer than it should, and this unsettles me. I hear the tick of the grandfather clock opposite where I stand, a single high tone repeated every second, a never-ending beat of the time that passes. The wind outside suffers alone, swirls through the night sky, and hits the foundations of the house with force; a sound that suggests that it is afraid to be out in the cold. The whistles and whines I hear could be a cry for help, like a siren to alert its presence. Bangs against the roof can be heard from downstairs, the wind is strong and forceful. These noises keep me awake long through the night.

Reason three: anxiety

Anxiety takes shape in many forms; a chameleon of worries. The worries float in my mind like buoys in the sea, the changing current varies their motions. I can smell the bitter salt water that surrounds these buoys in the ocean; the stench makes me quiver. Always on the surface and never hidden from view, my worries are positioned to be noticed, they are clever and know when to

conquer my mind, and they know when I am at my weakest. Objects in my room can sometimes help me during these sleepless times, in the form of distractions. The patchwork quilt that covers me catches my fingertips, its regular stitches contrast to the cotton squares of fabric; they are solid unlike the cushioned material that they are sewn to. The bottle of Night Nurse, a vibrant green liquid that resembles the spirit absinthe, perches on my bedside table. The horrid taste of bitter menthol remains in my throat like a persistent stain that is difficult to remove. For this brief moment I forget my worries, observation is a tool to block anxiety, but I lose sense of focus this time. I can feel my lungs begin to take in air, a fast quick cycle of inhaling and exhaling, deep breathes that make me panic. My cheeks ignite; they burn and smolder, a spread of heat orbits my body. I am the sun. The temperature of my skin raises higher, the levels of anxiety grow. The worry of being awake at this hour is the cause of this anxiety attack. Heart palpitations thud through my chest, the beat of my heart aches in my throat

The Morning

The morning has come now. I greet it as both an enemy and a friend. I view the morning as a burden, it rests heavy on my shoulders throughout the night, I am fearful of facing it when I have had no sleep. Yet I see it as a rescue from the worries, the thoughts, and the noise; a hero that saves me from the monsters that create my insomnia. Sunlight now comforts me; I am no longer alone in the darkness, I no longer suffer. The warmth of the sun hits my face; it holds my cheeks in its hands. I feel calm. The kettle screams and I pour the boiling water into my china mug. The coffee heats my hands and I sip; the sharp earth like taste awakens me, a connection is formed to this day and to the earth around me. I walk towards the doorway. The mirror on the wall reflects a familiar face; a face with imperfections; dark shadows fall below the eyes, a pale complexion against jet black hair. A fragile ghost. I leave the house for work. Sleep has been unkind again.



BECCA HINCHLIF Like most girls in the industry I never imagined I would be a model. I was scouted by elite London when I was 13, too young and too short. Although I’ve switched agencies a few times, at 17 I spend most of my free weekends in London traveling around to castings and shoots meeting very talented people. I plan to work in my gap year hopefully meeting with agencies in New York, Paris, Milan and other fashion capitals of the world, however the industry is volatile so nothing’s certain. Modelling rarely lasts forever so Ive applied to study law at uni after I complete my a-levels. I’m pretty happy to see how things go working wise. I haven’t set my mind to anything in particular but I’m content with how balanced things are at the moment.



DAISY SNOW Why I did it? Well I could never find any clothes I liked really and whenever I come across a problem like that I have to take radical action to sort it outso had to start my own clothing brand basically. ‘Classy but adequately brassy’ is how I would describe my style. I was thinking about the lack of clothes I liked in the back of a rickshaw going through the streets of Jaipur whilst visiting factories to buy from for our homewares business which I dropped out of school to work within when I was 15. Whats it all about? India- I love India like it’s my home, I know the producers we buy from like they are my family and I dig the culture big time! My first range is called the Jaipur collection, because that’s where it all began, the idea sprung whilst I was in this colourful city, textile paradise and this is also where the clothes are made, by hand, ethically and completely fair trade. This collection is based on old block prints – just funked up a little!! Block prints originate from Jaipur.

Whats it like designing clothes? The most incredible feeling is when you go out and people compliment what you are wearing – and you can say thankyou, its my from my own range!!!! Its so exciting!! Dealing with India is all I’ve ever known, I know the retail industry extremely well so the running of things doesnt phase me but pulling off a photoshoot with real life models when I’m used to chairs and cushions was a bit daunting, however it happened and I was over the moon with the results. I’ve now got Pure Fashion Show coming up in February which is the official launch of this range. I’ve tried to plan everything but I’m sure there will be little hiccups along the way!! The clothing will be available from us directly on our website – but not until around May time as lead times are slow when dealing with India, ‘Indian Time’ – 50 times slower than what we are used to!!


Phoebe Salmon, Photographer; 19. Born in Devon, living in London. ‘I strive to maintain an unusual and adventurous approach to my photographic and abstract art works. Concentrating on arousing strong interaction with the viewer, I aim to project a depth which encourages and invites individual interpretation’


21st Century interaction. This whole massive swinging pendulum of communication, that smashes in our face at every conceivable interval Facebook, Twitter , Instagram and that’s naming just a grain of the sand bag of electrical interaction that we have to hand. I mean EVERYONE when I say us (well everyone in the western world) , cos even my Gran (whose like well old) emails me now instead of writing letters. Yet I get this horrible, horrible feeling that by having all this communication we sort of ironically are communicating less. For instance, OK, take your average you know meal out with some friends. I don’t know let’s say for argument’s sake you go to your local Prezzo. So Step one you have a group convo on Facebook to discuss the idea blah, Step two you go to meet the ‘ManDem’ texting them on the way ( you know just in case they forgot about the FB convo, that happened about an hour prior) Step three, see something funny on way to Prezzo ( seagull pooing on child) so, you Snapchat it to everyone on your contacts. OK just coming round the corner, little vibration of the phone, ooh is someone ringing? Don’t be silly! Who needs to speak when… You have a Facebook notification – stating that Carlos has tagged you in a post – you Dick and Joe are all going to Prezzo for lunch LOLZ. BECAUSE EVERYONE TOTES NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOUR DOING FOR LUNCH RIGHT?. OK so you’ve got to Prezzo now. Phew. Sit down. Obviously do a quick check of the news feed (obviously), to see if anyone is doing anything better than you are right now (they aren’t, good).

Slave to the Friends at meal follow suit, all be it at different intervals. Cue some ‘hilarious’ Snap chats involving spoons on noses, whilst waiting for meal. Meal arrives. OMG the pasta looks so amazing, all four bits of it are so beautifully laid out, and it has a skirt on made out of parsley. OMG. Hashtag time. #pizzaexpress #food blah blah blah. * All friends follow suit posting variations of their orders on Instagram. Next comes the tense moment when Dick get’s more likes on Instagram for his ravioli then Jo did for his shitty Calzone #wellcultured. I don’t know if anyone can relate to this. But it’s as though we feel the need instead of ringing up and actually speaking to each other, like what people did in the 90′s , we just text. Instead of going for a few intimate drinks with our nearest and dearest. We feel the need to tell EVERYONE on Facebook that we are going to Bar V, and it’s going to be A RIGHT PISS UP YEAH. And what I think is the sorriest sight, seeing a couple having a nice little date and not talking… Nah, Instagram needs to see their well posh Nando’s first. When did we become so engrossed in this whole massive spectrum of hash tags and tweets? Does anyone else not find it a bit weird about how public we are making our lives? do it). Accept by using social

freedom of Technology. Jessica Cole

# Is anything sacred anymore? Even YouTube wants to pull my number. Why would YouTube need my mobile number? In light of this whole Snowden thing about, you know the big guys watching us little guys, got me thinking more and more about all this data we innocently enter into our computer systems. It’s CRAZY. How much information we naively give away. I mean it’s quite easy for someone to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing within a few minutes, even if you aren’t a face booker, FYI google maps. Perfect tool for a murderer right? We are comfortably allowing our world to become that of the horrors envisioned by George Orwell in 1984 (If you haven’t read it, get off Facebook now andmedia so excessively, we seem to be giving this massive, metallic robot of surveillance, a big lifty up in helping it crash through our right to privacy. Its big old transformer boot is stamping out all of our freedoms.

I’ll be the first to admit with both hands held up that, yes I am 100% a Facebook junkie. I’ve wanted so many times to delete my account but, for some reason like the Pete Doherty of FB, I just CAN NOT bring myself to do it. It’s like some weird sort of ulcer that just won’t go away. I try not to post too much stuff on there, because, you know even though I AM on it constantly be it on my phone or on my laptop, I don’t want people to THINK I’m on it constantly. Because that’d be well lame and not mysterious at all. So I appear offline and refresh my page to see if I have any notifications which, like little dancing beacons light up and say YOUR POPULAR well done. It’s ridiculous. Yet I still can’t help but go to that innocent blue icon, and be sucked into six hours of clicking on random peoples photos and trawling through the news feed, sub consciously checking if anyone else is having a better time than I am. ( Most of the time they aren’t) Social media is perhaps one of the most addictive and also most dangerous things in the world. Maybe even more addictive than junk and more dangerous than bombs. Yet it’s completely acceptable to be addicted to our society. Everyone has some form of social media even Carpet World. Why does a Carpet need twitter? Madness.


DANIELLA GOLDEN I've always been a fan of hair swishing photos. I can't say what exactly it is - the sense of movement, the freedom, the unexpected facial expressions of the poor model who has to throw their face about. Whatever it is, I had wanted to capture hair movement for a while and a portraiture project at school seemed like the perfect opportunity to experiment. Luckily enough I had a friend with just the right hair. Her super long and loosely wavy mass of brown hair created a cool texture and defined sense of movement in the images. The image at the end of the series was simply my friend having had enough of flicking her hair about for 20 minutes, but I think it closes the series nicely: it sort of puts a full stop to the sequence of movement. I find hair movement fascinating and definitely want to experiment further with it, as well as abstract portraiture: looking into the way obscuring a person's face can still give us access to their feelings and personality.

CHANEL SS14 CONTEMPORARY COUTURE Sweet, structured and wildly contemporary: the Chanel Spring/Summer 2014 Haute Couture show fused Princess like delicacy with the nonchalant cool of trainers, bum bags and skater pads. Models literally skipped and bounded down the extravagant stair cases in the Grand Palais: letting the soft soles of couture trainers take them on a trip around the vast, swanky night club style space. Bejeweled, embroidered and dyed, these were not your average trainers. These were Lagerfeld crafted, trainers stitched with glamour. Sea blues, soft lilacs and sugary sweet pastel colours made up a beautifully iridescent, mermaid worthy colour palette, structured in the house’s classic tweed, or else light organzas and tulles. Be it cropped a-line tops and skirts that sit low on the hips, over sized pockets, or sheer fabrics, the collection proved to be strikingly sci fi for a couture collection. Youthfulness was the planted seed it seems.

Sebastien Tellier’s uplifting beats, the revolving stage and clean white interior gave the show a relaxed, gracious aura that was upstaged only by the coolness of the collection. Ending with Cara Delvingue cascading down the stairs in a glistening silver dress with a sheer overlay, (amply dressed and apparently random page boy in toe), you couldn’t help feeling something very special had happened. Like the ending of a theater production, an intense play, or a concert, I imagine there was a connection in the room: a frisson of electricity strung from editor to blogger to buyer. Sadly I can only assume this, as I haven’t received my invite to a Chanel Haute couture show yet.



After a traditional foundation course in Totnes, the move to Manchester was a big change. I’ve been able to apply the skills learned in Totnes to current projects. I find visual inspiration in most things, I don’t limit myself to only looking at other graphic design. I tend to work by hand as much as possible, and I scan work to take advantage of the holy trinity of Adobe. This is what makes my work feel unique as it contains my artistic handwriting.

Above: Found Image with Illustration Right: Found Image Distorted with a Scanner Opposite // Above: Found Image Manipulated digitally Below: Type design, quote from LOUISE BOURGEOIS


ARTISTIC INSPIRATION / LOUISE BOURGEOIS HANNAH HÖCH El Lissitzky Bauhaus alan fletcher John Virtue rachel whiteread Jean-Michel Basquiat

w w w . h a r r y - c o o k e . t u m b l r . c o m

w w w . h a r r y c o o k e . c w w w . h a r r y c o o k e . c o . u k






HARRY COOKE w w w . h a r r y c o o k e . c o . u k Eighteen year old photographer Harry Cooke is taking the internet by storin with his fashion photogaphy.Currently studying in Exeter he is looking to go on to start University next year, with an outstanding portfolio to hand, he is one to keep your eye on. In discussion with Harry himself this is what he had to say about his work; I’ve only been shooting for a year and a half but have developed a real passion for photography and have applied to do a photography course at a number of universities. Although I’d like to shoot fashion as a career, I really enjoy shooting documentary type images on my analog whenever I get chance too. One of my main influences is the old school fashion photographer that is Helmut Newton. He also focused mainly on woman’s fashion but mostly shot on film, whereas I shoot a lot of my fashion and portraits on digital. His gallery in Berlin is one of the best galleries that I’ve ever been too, the size a layout of them images throughout the exhibition space was amazing, and every photo complimented the next one shown, considering all of these had been taken on an analog camera the size and quality of the prints were very impressive.























w w w . h a r r y - c o o k e . t u m b l r . c o m w . h a r r y c o o k e . c o . u


There is a connection between black magic and espionage. If the secret service is a teacup, then occult practices are the tea leaves at the bottom of it: not everyone can read them but they’re still there. I might have realised this with the appearance of a darkly-dressed man on my Monday morning commute, or perhaps with the set of giallo re-runs I watched the night before I first saw him standing on the Tube. It’s hard to ascertain these things in retrospect. He stood unmoving against the window, his stark face made celluloid against a searing backdrop of the decade’s dank black walls. Last night’s films had been set in Italy, all orange-red dust and blonde women, but the scenario today was still the same. Throughout the journey, he held a demeanour of polite indifference and looked at no-one, though it was not that he saw nothing, I don’t think, rather, he saw nothing he was looking for. Maybe the other passengers perceived him as blind, maybe they missed him altogether, but I gazed with such determination at the collar of his inert white shirt, that I thought I might remain fixed that way forever. Spies have a way of getting at you like that. They siphon your attention so incisively, so single-mindedly, that they don’t even have to directly look at you at all before they know your name, your location, your innermost train-of-thoughts. Most of the time, despite the intensity of such unspoken altercations, you blink your eyes and forget them, and step back into your singular life, whatever that may be, reduced now with one look to a lined white page in a casebook.

But I thought about him still: in the cash-point queues buying vegetables whose names I couldn’t pronounce, on the commute back home when a dark rain seemed to stick to everything, turning about in bed before sleep. I sat in front of a computer screen the following day and saw glowing, needle-point lasers striking out at me to form a precise grid upon my face. Later in the day, whilst stirring coffee in some nameless cafe, I thought I saw my face blown-up on the side of a bus, on a milk-carton grasped by a small child, in the likeness of every human face around me. I couldn’t escape myself. After twenty-three minutes of standing opposite him again on the second Monday, I began the process of deleting my existence. I deleted every photograph of myself from the internet, took down entire clumps of social media, obliterated all text conceived beneath my name, and its every alias, including the mementos left on my mother’s obituary page on each anniversary of her death. A green screen of data fuzzed across my vision. In half-dreams, I saw myself in circles of salt, intricate patterns of cryptology surrounding my naked body. Sometimes I’d wake suddenly and find myself trapped inside encryption webs with something like a spider looming over me. And I learned, within those one-hundred and sixty-eight paranoid hours, that my attempted erasion was futile. I had left a digitalised fingerprint on everything and increasingly, I began to see the stand-by button on my computer as a blinking red eye.

I learned, that no human is untraceable, no-one can simply disappear. It’s logical when you consider the atomic composure of things. It’s natural that beings, both animate and inanimate, leave indelible imprints on their surroundings. The essence of us can be traced everywhere if you know where to look, and there are people that seek it out, with nothing but eyes and a convincing spell. On the third Monday, I walked to the long end of the last carriage in purposeful avoidance, yet somehow found myself under surveillance of that blank stare once more, which, though never regarded, recorded and documented my every living fibre. Cramped from insomnia in a computer chair, skin pocked by the incessant analysis of minute laser beams, I tried to make myself into an anonymous shape. Instead, I found myself imaging him in a black trenchcoat, a water-slick Homburg hat, something recognisable. It wasn’t that his face was boring as such, it’s that there was a strangely indiscernible quality to its features, making him faceless almost, and you never can run from a man without a face.


There is nothing to distinguish it from other faces, so it can lurch out at you from cereal boxes, children’s television programs, the evening news, wherever it wants to, and you’ll never realise. The automated voice-over crackled into audibility over the underground’s dull thrum. A woman’s voice, my brain perceived, though it seems odd that sex should be applied to disembodied, robotic words. The satanic dark of the underground tunnels peeled away to reveal a train platform, aluminium encased and blindingly white, throbbing with nonchalantly anticipant bodies. The scene was almost sacrificial: all those people milling in ties, blue jeans, backpacks slung about packed for the afterlife, all silent and inwardly praying not to miss the gap. The train door’s droned open, and in the featureless face of the spy I recognised movement, a perfect clicking of the eyes into place, pneumatic zooming of the pupils onto someone or something out there in the surge, and instantaneously, though calmly precise, he alighted and dissolved into the crowd. I saw then that the cipher was solved, my entire life had been spread-out, analysed, discussed over coffee probably, and now I lay in a little file, packed in neat beside the others who had looked too long, who had tried to escape. A muffled spark reverberated through my palms. I let go of the metal pole.



These are the photos of the paper dress i designed and made during freshers week. I got inspiration from John Galliano’s 2010 Dior Fall Flower collection. He used very strong silhouettes and based his colour pallet and material story on the physical characteristics of a number of exotic flowers. I also took inspiration from my home town, Teignmouth, in the south west of England. The fishtail skirt is a portrayal of the river mouth, fishing ports, and large dock that my town is known for, and the hundreds of handmade paper flowers emphasise the raw nature I grew up with. I decided to create a strong, feminine silhouette, showcased through the sweetheart neckline, clinched in waist, and larger flowers used to build up volume around the hips. The overall look was to create a strong alpha female look.

I made the dress first for the end of freshers week fashion show, pulled together by the music, production, marketing, and many other students. It was created out of Plattform newspapers, and as you can see i carefully selected specific pages to create a colour gradient of pinks, blues, and purples, separated with black and white flowers to create a unique quality to the design. fore they tore quite easily!

Myself and two other girls were then chosen by John Lewis to re-create our dresses using John Lewis catalogues, and i asked two of my class mates Geraint Lewis and Rebecca Wilson-Flower to help me make it again from scratch as i only had one day to complete the 2nd dress. It then was displayed in store for a few weeks, then was put onto ‘the bridge’ for Cardiff fashion week. It was harder to make the flowers out of catalogue as the material was stiffer there

You were beautiful If only you could of belived it too. You were so strong, and through the cold harsh winters you powered on through. You blossomed beautifully, in such little sunlight. You were ashamed for you early bloom. and worried endlessly for what the others would think of you You held your head down. You never looked up to the skies. You didn’t belive yourself worthy of such a pure sunlight. We never got to see the real divinty that was you. It wasn’t till you wilted to the ground, like a Hellebore, having never seen the sun that you realised your pain was no longer profound but it was too late, for you had already jumped the gun. I love you. The phrase is time bound, no matter how true. The word love does not imply and accompany infinite time. No matter how much I wish to love you, and to build a future with you. The love I offer is limited to my current state. Marriage offers a the possibility for eternal happiness together, but marriage is not an ultimate love. You do not have to declare or pass a test, its optional. The rings shared our promises, but promises that cannot be truthfully made, for the future is unknown. This saddens me so. This scares me so. Nothing is definite. We build structures to ensure security and stable lives, but everything around us in flux. I don’t wish to be cynical of the situation with you, for dear it is true as of now that I am deeply in love with you. I cannot provide security for something that we do not know. But for not the phrase is true, if it wasn’t so god damn cliche I would say it over and over to you, to prove that for now , all that I can , as truth. Opposite: Sorcha Tucker Reverse Print 2013 Poem & Writing: Sorcha Tucker 2014

THANK YOU I would like to take the time to thank each of the contributors and all those that took part in the production of this magazine. I do not own any of the images included within the magazine,

Contributors: Aaron Cumbers Becca Hinchliffe Daniella Golden Daisy Snow Hannah Smith Harry Cooke Heidi Oliver Jennifer Pavlick Jessica Cole Jodie Campbell Owen Reed Phoebe Salmon Rosie Salter Willow Vincent

Think Email

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got it too? your work.. Love Sorcha xxx



Issue 1 May 2014 Culture and Arts Online Magazine

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