“For the second issue, to appear this Fall, we already talked creative city dwellers, such as musician Woodkid, film director Anne Emond, and artist Joep van Lieshout. We will explore the aesthetics of eroticism in the eighties and again we promise you a voluptuous amount of pages with art and photography.

“We believe eroticism is best explored from an independent position. We need your support to be that independent publication that can speak about this subject with a confident and self-assured manner. We would like each of you to participate, if and when you can, and help us make this magazine a success.”

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Lonely Bones is a surreal and sinister story with music and characters from the music project Thee Wreckers. A one-eyed man escapes from a hotel room and steps into a forsaken world, where time and space melt together.

Rosto says: “Lonely Bones is a dream-like experience, not a movie with a traditional storyline or formula. That’s why it says in the synopsis: About the making of dreams and sacrifices. The movie is like a poem. It’s not about what the film is about, but what the movie is. Everybody experiences and interprets the movie in his own way. I see it as self-expression, not entertainment.”

Lonely Bones is the second part of the tetralogy ‘Wrecker-films’ and the final piece of Rosto’s graphic novel Mind the Gap. According to Rosto though it’s a trip in itself.

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Their new issue is dedicated to the new generation of Cuban designers and artists, focusing on Cuban poster art.

“Revolution or evolution? Fall or rise? Whorehouse or paradise? Cola or guarapo? Marlboro or Cohiba? Beans or lobster? Freedom or Guantanamo? Track suit or tie? Internet or carrier pigeon? Salsa or rap? Old-timer or Turbo? Museum or future-lab? Work or none? Hope or exile? Or a mix of all of these queries? It’s different than we think – much more complicated, deep and full of surprises. Reason enough to dedicate the 21st issue of Slanted Magazine to a young generation of Cuban designers and artists.

“Slanted #21: CUBA – The New Generation” illuminates contemporary design, photography, illustration and typography from Cuba with a special focus on Cuban poster art – most projects and artworks have never been shown outside Cuba.”

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For the clumsy contemporaries there are plenty of t-shirt printing services.

Seed bombs work in any place that has a bit of dirt and access to sun and rain and are easy to make, because they don’t need to be buried or watered. The seeds will self-germinate when the right conditions occur. Even a crack in the sidewalk will do.

Step #1
Materials:
Mixed seeds (Always use native seeds. Non-native ones might be harmfull to the eco-system.)
Compost
Powdered red or brown clay
Water

Step #2
Combine two parts mixed seeds with three parts compost.

Step #3
Stir in five parts powdered red or brown clay.

Step #4
Moisten with water until the mixture is damp enough to mold into balls

Step #5
Pinch off a small piece of the clay mixture and roll it between the palms of your hands until it forms a tight ball.

Step #6
Set the balls on newspaper and allow to dry for 24-48 hours. Store in a cool dry dry place until ready to sow.

Step #7
Take a Easter walk and bomb your neighborhood for an explosion of flowers.

Happy Easter everyone!

That’s what I wrote in response to a comment on my facebook profile last night, but computer said no. I’d gotten online long enough to write it, but posting proved impossible. The G3 sticks they use to get online here are like getting lung cancer from smoking though you never had the pleasure of inhaling. Half the time they don’t work and 80% of the time they do you can forget about attaching a file to a mail, up or downloading, and anything to do with streaming content. But no worries, they still give you a wallop of radiation like you had your phone burnt to your ear all day. Most of the time we end up squatting the wifi of a nearby hotel called Club Maspalomas. First we asked a kid surfing inside if there was a password. Then we sat on the curb of the street in front of the hotel. Soon we were on the benches just in front of the hotel, and I thought we’d end up working on the bank of their heated pool. Then, sometimes the connection would drop out. This happened about five minutes into our session for three days running. The only theory we could accept (that presented an immediate course of action), was that maybe they noticed our activity and cut the signal. So we began to stay on opposite sides of the hotel, each as close to the front door as possible while remaining outside the perspective offered by the office window. When they couldn’t see us, we enjoyed a fast and stable connection. After a week we labeled the hotel ‘the office’ and ‘second base.’

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Government signs and recycling bins were buried or up past their nuts in water. A fat man pulled up in a white pick up truck, took a swig of vodka and stared out into the water wondering how long he had to save his small beach kiosk. As we walked, Nomad took wonder in everything just like he usually does. I am no longer surprised when the most common broken branch excites him. He made a small sculpture that was one of the most fragile and lovely things I have seen in a long time. The back of the piece was natural, three meter leafy blades and long shards of bamboo, thin and firm and whipping left to right front to back to the broken beats of an aggressive and confused wind. Then he transformed the largest spool of tumbleweeds on the planet into a wildebeest with dates for eyes. One was red, the other green. Finally he waded out into muddy waters and wrote Hope. Hopeless I kept thinking, mainly because it was very difficult to read the word. It was hope for nature, not humanity.

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We didn’t see any storms like this on our journey from LA up to Colorado and back. It rained during those two weeks, but nothing destructive. The only suffering we saw in the landscape looked like hundreds of miles of nothing. One afternoon, we were stopped at a rest area and were kicking the football around when we thought we saw a storm in the distance, but it was no storm. It was another brush fire. It was still Summer then and California was burning. Now the island is flooding and all I can think is, at least I’m not in Belgium. That was the comment a friend had left on my facebook page, ‘You should have left the rain in Belgium where it belongs.’

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If I were in Angola I may have been thinking, at least it was the Portuguese who colonized our bit of the Congo and not the Belgians.

The island is wrecked, but I know that everything will be ok. After all, there is no other option. Besides, the tumbleweed wildebeest has a new baby.

If you want to save the world, you have to start on the streets even when they are sand dunes. The streets are the place where everything mingles. The only place where you can reach society as a whole, not even the internet provides this sort of equal access- not today and not tomorrow. The streets are the place where we come face to face with all walks of life, where everything begins.

Some have questioned wether the personality was created by marketing agencies in order to legitimise the luxury brands in their “street battle”.

Think what you like, it still exists.

A car race on no car day that saw local businesses mix with international organizations to compete in the second World Dream Bike Championship. Participants arrived at 9:30 on a Sunday morning (talk about motivation), were divided into teams and given standard materials that included: a bike, wood, tape, plastic cords, pvc and cardboard and had 5 hours to build their vehicles before the race began.

Following the race, Joy Wellboy and Rodolphe Coster performed.

Partners: UNRIC, European Commission, The Volvo Group, Cut Me, Mapp, Cabinet, Jamesons, &, Cafe Costume, PIC

The artist duo is standing on two folding ladders in the open passage under the high line station „Goerlitzer Bahnhof“ in Berlin-Kreuzberg. They both tinker about with scissors and a lighter at the cords of a life-sized marionette built from cardboard. The hooks and eyes are attached to the bars-like ceiling construction.

„No, we just have to fix it a bit!“ – The angry look in the woman’s eyes vanishes and she moves on. After a short while the two artists also have to assure a boy and his mother that they will leave the puppet at it’s place.

Within the few days and nights in which the figure has been hanging at this strange place, it apparently did win a number of friends – first and foremost Ben, a slim musician in his forties wearing a black hat. He spends much of his time here under the station, sitting there on the table next to the kiosk with his ragtag group of pals, drinking either coffee or beer and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Today is Sunday, and Ben recounts, how a young, blotto stranger has kicked the marionette with full force earlier this morning. The cords flew apart and the puppet crashed down onto the ground. Only the two severed arms were still dangling on the strings in the air. The folks at the table next to the station kiosk screamed out and got up, therefore the drunken guy bolted. Ben went directly to the marionette to raise it and patch it up again. Then he affixed it back on the cords as well as possible.

Everyday while looking after their puppet, Various & Gould find traces of minor repairs on the marionette, executed by someone else. A torn off foot being reattached with rubber band or the shoulder joint with an empty cigarette box and adhesive tape. Particularly Ben seems to take care of the marionette, although he is wearing a bandage himself. One of his fingers got splinted when Ben was beaten up three weeks ago and he shielded his face with his hands from the kicks. – „If the kiosk owner had not come at that very moment, I could have been …“

Here it actually comes to the essential of the marionette installation. Not only do particular passers-by get in touch with the puppet, but also random people theirselves are brought into contact. A real interaction is happening. For example did Various & Gould get to know the people under the station step-by-step during the regular mendings. Several times Ben and his pals, who probably don’t have much money themselves, have bought the artists a coffee. – „You can also have a beer if you like!“

They meet once, twice and then daily. Soon such initial questions about meaning and purpose of the marionette and the duration of it’s stay don’t have to be asked any more. Ben and the others are in the plot and explain everything to the passers-by and tourists who play with the puppet. Sometimes they demonstrate how to move the puppet or lend a hand to produce complex movements. The marionette – which by the way is called „Heinrich“ – has already survived 5 days and most notably 6 nights. He couldn’t have done it without the help of the people from Goerlitzer Bahnhof!

With the puppeteers changing constantly one gets to realize: Not only the marionette is being moved but also the people move themselves. Some just pull one of the chords briefly, others get totally into it, grab the strings with both of their hands and check out various sequences of movements.
The act of creating motions has quiet a mirroring nature. This becomes apparent at the very moment when a young woman in holey tights reaches for the strings and ties them directly round her knees and wrists to direct more strings simultaneously. It looks like two marionettes facing each other and being joined by the same chords.

There is a quote by Ben that fits this topic. During a conversation on the first day his joy about the puppet suddenly changes into melancholy: „So to speak, all of us are like marionettes.“, he says to Various & Gould. „Somebody pulls our strings and we move.“
On Monday Ben has to undergo an operation on his injured hand. This time he is the one being under repair, and someone else has to look after Heinrich. Unfortunately it is the very day some passers-by decide to cut the strings off and take the marionette with them – six days after it was installed under the station.

That’s the way it is: Publicly accessible offerings are being appreciated and treated by the people in very different ways. One week ago it felt naturally to Various & Gould to let go of Heinrich. But now thinking of Ben and all the happenings makes it kind of hard again.

Many thanks to Studio Nura and Lucky Cat for their photos!

Landing at Banjul airport, the first thing that hits you is the thick heat. Like a hot slap in the face, from that point the heat follows you and becomes both a beast of burden and a new best friend. The sun is larger and hotter at the equator, easing off at sunset only to be replaced by a world of flesh-eating insects. The Gambia is known as The Smiling Coast of Africa, the name comes from the apparent smiling shape of the river Gambia that grins its way through Senegal from the Atlantic Ocean.

We had flown to Gambia to paint. This was all I knew, my traveling companions had made the trip previously and although they kept most of the details a mystery, I felt sure they were leading me in the right direction. Our destination was a lodge in the Makasutu area, also known as ‘The Devil’s Playground’, a pocket of paradise, bang smack in the middle of jungle, resting on the banks of salt water rivers, tangled up in a knot of ever expanding mangroves, home to crocodiles, rare birds and an army of baboons.

My company included a mix of artists, all there for the same reason, to paint, and to explore. The aim of the trip was to share what we do with the local villages, using our art to bring to life otherwise blank or broken walls. An exchange of sorts, a collaboration with the environment, a shift of context, a refreshing slant on the world of ‘Street Art’ and ultimately an opportunity for both parties to discover something.

Art, especially painting, speaks a universal language, and has the power and potential to cross cultural boundaries and speak for itself; a silent statement, larger than life, free from advertising or pressures of commercial obligation. A large, black and white painting of a crocodile transforms a falling down wall into a focal point, often becoming a meeting point and talking point for all who pass it by. The painting itself becomes a social event and social sculpture, a catalyst for creative fun to be had. Children and adults observe, and look on with pride, with looks that’s say; ‘that’s our wall, that’s our painting, this is our village’. In this way painting becomes the driving force, escaping the history and dogma of graffiti and high art, with no regard for money or publicity. With few words to communicate, facial expressions and smiles become currency, popularity and success is measured in how many children are assisting you, payment comes in the purest form of mangos, roasted cashew nuts and the promise of a cold bottle of Jul Brew beer.

There is an unknown quantity to this project, a mystery of exactly how far the work reaches, added to by the lack of online publicity and documentation. The artworks shift between the main focus and somewhere in the background, hidden by bushes and passing cattle. The artworks remain unlabeled, untitled, and never for sale. At the root of the project I saw the reflection of the artwork in the bright eyes of children who are captivated by the very action of a brush or spray can on a wall, instinctively finding a pencil and piece of paper to copy and in turn take part.

I am still getting my head around the idea of white European street artist painting in remote African villages, it is easy to over-think this, and be over-critical of the reasons, methods and repercussions of such a cultural exchange. I am confident that from whatever side of the fence you stand the result and effect is still the same: people love a big painting on their wall.