essay

Obsession

“obsession
əbˈsɛʃ(ə)n/
noun - the state of being obsessed with someone or something.”

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY KEVIN MULLINS

Every March, they march.  From every corner of the globe they trot.  

It's the "World Cup" of horse racing, they say.  Something like 50,000 people each day, for four days, pass through the doors of the famous Cheltenham Race course for the festival.  10,000 of those travel from Ireland.

It's an emphatic collection of souls, sods and lucky ladies.  Broke men, happy lads and tic tac hand signals litter the side tracks and walk ways.

One thing remains constant throughout the day; the obsessiveness of humanity but all a gallimaufry.  A £2.50 bet or a £10,000 accumulator yields the same anxious faces.  Nervous sups of beer, twitching hands lighting cigarettes until the first horse crosses the line.

And then.

And then, for a small amount of equine trustees, arms in the air, pats on backs and deep swigs of the drinks at hand before collecting their loot.

For the rest, the obsession continues.  And continues.

 

Camping for Education

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY BERT STEPHANI

Flanders, the North part of Belgium, has a good and affordable public school system. That is: if you can get your child in. A lot of schools struggle with too little capacity for too many kids. And in more and more establishments, the only way to get your son or daughter in, is to camp at the school’s gate long before registrations open for the next year. My twelve year old son is very much looking forward to start high school in september, but to make that happen I had to go through the camping ordeal myself.

Last year people started to queue around midnight, so my plan was to drive by the school to check the situation the evening before registration. But at ten in the morning I received a phone call from a friend who told me that if I wanted my son in, I’d better jump in my car. I dropped everything and rushed out. Generally the atmosphere was relaxed as everyone present at that point was pretty sure to get their kid in. As the hours progressed more and more people, armed with sleeping bags, tents, camping chairs and food started to occupy the sidewalk. Food and drinks were shared with friends and strangers while laughter filled the air. 

As the sun set, the atmosphere stayed pleasant but some paranoia began creeping in. None of us knew the exact number of places available but we could guess by looking at the crowd that most spots would be filled by now—yet more people kept arriving. The first person in the queue had started a list and we all agreed that it was only fair to enter in the order in which we'd arrived. But would the latecomers respect this? Every parent knows how far a mother or father can go to get the best for his or her child.

 

Around midnight the temperature dropped to just above freezing and most retreated to their sleeping bags, trying to get at least a bit of uncomfortable sleep. After only a couple of hours, people started to get up, in desperate need to get their blood circulation going again. It was collectively decided to start lining up according to the order of the list. New people kept arriving and you could see some of them evaluating their options to bypass the queue; but people who have been waiting for a long day and a cold night can be a menacing crowd so luckily, none of the latecomers took the risk of being lynched. 

Eventually we were let in and one by one, we orderly registered our kids. I was exhausted but very happy I got my son in. The effort had paid off but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for all those people who would be told the school was full. My son got in because I have the freedom to arrange my own agenda, the local friends to let me know when the queuing started, the physical ability to endure a cold night and friends and family who brought me hot drinks and took care of the kids. But how would you do it if you were a single mom with three kids, had a boss who wouldn't let you take time off and nobody to help out?

I don’t blame the school or even the bastard who decided to start that line at eight in the morning. But I do blame politicians who don’t look further than the next elections. 

Alizarine Frida

Photography and text by Vincent Baldensperger

"- Tu t'appelles comment ? 
- Marie 
- Marie comment ? 
- Marie A."

Marie a les cheveux rouges 
et c'est leur couleur naturelle…

Marie n'est pas une coiffeuse, Marie a l'âme d'une artiste,
le regard flamboyant lorsque l'on évoque Frida Kahlo. 
Ne cherchez ni le détail ni l'artifice ordinaire, 
traversez le miroir sans retenue 
vous êtes l'invité de son cabinet de curiosité capillaire 
où se marient objets, symboles et bestiaire silencieux. 
Passions, histoires et contes d'autrefois réunis autour de quatre murs...

Derrière le rouge flambeau souffle une voix sucrée, 
vous êtes un enfant, Marie saura vous apprivoiser.

"-What's your name?
- Marie
- Marie who?
- Marie A."

Marie has red hair
& it's her natural colour...

Marie isn't a hairdresser, Marie has the soul of an artist,
her eyes burn with fire when someone mentions Frida Kahlo.
Do not look for the mundane or the ordinary,
walk through the looking glass without hesitation
you've been invited to her cabinet of curios
where objects, symbols and silent bestiaries collide.
Passions, stories and ancient lore within four walls...

Behind the red torch a sweet voice whispers,
you are a child
Marie will tame you.

 

On The Trail of Sub Bass

Photography & text by Flemming Bo Jensen

Every year thousands of ravers assemble under a highway overpass in Copenhagen. They are here to worship electronic beats organized by Ohoi! - Copenhagen’s original sound killers and bass pirates.

They call it ‘Bas Under Buen’ - Bass under the Arch. The event showcases Danish electronic artists with sub-bass as the common thread that threatens to awake the Kraken from the icy Nordic depths. The theme is music by the people for the people. The DJ is on street level with the crowd. There are no special lights. And everyone plays an equal amount of time. 

The Copenhagen event is a classic, but now it is just the opening. Now we travel to 3 other cities in Denmark, leaving behind a trail of low frequency induced mayhem. 

Fashion Consciousness

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY DEREK CLARK

There is only seconds to go until catwalk time, but corsets need laced, shoes are being buckled and a safety pin is being strategically placed on the front of a dress to ensure all eyes are on the clothes and not exposed body parts. 

It's chaos backstage, but as the curtain opens and the lights kick-in, one by one each model struts gazelle like down the catwalk. They hit their mark at the end of the runway, give it some attitude then turn to make the final walk before exiting.

Life

Text & photography by Kevin Mullins

As a photographer we are the visual storyteller, we are, in essence a witness. A “curator of memories”, I like to tell my clients.

On a daily basis we photograph the seemingly mundane, the seemingly sad and the seemingly happy. We photograph every day events and we are making memories, forever, of the world unravelling its rich little tapestry.

Occasionally, this role leads us down a path full of unexpectedly tender twists and turns. One of, perhaps, the most natural events to occur, childbirth, is often fêted, often talked about but rarely captured.

I spent seven hours in the presence of strangers, photographing the planned caesarean birth of their daughter. 

Many will think this is a voyeurism too far, but remember we are the “curators of memories”. 

This, right here, is the dawn of memory. 
In fact this, right here, is life.

Process & Incubation

Text and Photography Patrick La Roque

Words hold powerful magic. Scribbled on a torn sheet of paper, yelled or whispered, proclaimed into the vastness of a concert hall or howled into a sweat stained pillow, lost to screams no one will ever hear... They can be pure and soft, or hard — yielding nonsense or the unavoidable truth.

For three days I watch quietly as this object evolves. Three days of incubation, from concept, to form...
From silence to a dark celebration of music and words.

L'Art et la matière

Text and photography by Vincent Baldensperger

Ici parlent les éléments. Ici se marient l'Art et la Matière, la lissière et le coutelier-forgeron. Chacun s'exprime avec passion, précision et intensité, les gestes sont précieux, délicats, attentifs mais aussi techniques et maitrisés. Quand l'Art de la tapisserie d'Aubusson rencontre celui de la coutellerie traditionnelle cela donne naissance à d'étonnantes créations.

Les contrastes existent, de la quiétude du métier à tisser aux fureurs et aux flammes de la forge du coutelier, à l'image de la nature qui les entoure, de ce coin de campagne perdu et cerné par des forêts denses où le soleil déchire les sous bois à coups de lames aveuglantes.

Entourée de dizaines de pelotes colorées, Marie-Armelle maitrise son ouvrage avec calme, patience et minutie, reprenant ces mêmes gestes, ce savoir-faire vieux de plus de six siècles inscrit au patrimoine de l'Unesco. Chaque nouvelle pièce de tapisserie d'Aubusson est destinée à orner plusieurs manches de couteaux.

De la petite pièce où elle travaille, on entend clairement les claquements métalliques du marteau sur l'enclume, le vieux soufflet de la forge réveillant les ardeurs du métal… Ici David dompte les éléments, se joue des extrêmes, des heures passées à marteler ses lames, découper, poncer, aiguiser, lustrer puis finaliser ses montages en orfèvre…

Sans fioritures, j'aimerais vous inviter à passer quelques heures et pourquoi pas plusieurs jours ici, au cœur de la Creuse. Respirer, sentir, observer, écouter, vous proposer de découvrir l'authenticité de deux artisans, de deux savoir-faire uniques alliant tradition et modernité.
(english translation follows)

Translation:
Here the elements speak. Art and Matter combined — fiber artist and silversmith. Each one speaking in a voice of passion, precision and intensity; their gestures delicate, precious, attentive and rooted in technical mastery. When the Art of Aubusson tapestry  encounters traditional cutlery… The resulting creations are nothing less than astonishing.

This is a world of contrasts, from the soft and quiet whispers of the loom to the fiery depths of the forge. It echoes the surrounding countryside and its dense forests where the sun can rip through the undergrowth in one sharp, blinding fury.

Surrounded by tens of coloured balls of twine, Marie-Armelle works patiently, repeating century-old gestures recognized as part of the UNESCO World Heritage. Each and every new piece of Aubusson tapestry destined to grace a knife.

From the small room where she toils you can hear the clanging of the hammer falling on the anvil, the old bellows awakening the soul locked inside the metal… This is where David conquers the elements, hours upon hours spent hammering the blades, cutting, sharpening, sanding, polishing…

I’d like to invite you here, to spend a few hours or a few days in the heart of La Creuse. To breathe, to smell, to observe and listen. To discover the authenticity of two artisans, two unique savoir-faire's — borne of tradition and modernity.

Week / Week

Text & photography by Bert Stephani

I’m a father … Every other week.
My divorced friends said I would get used to it. But after four years I still don’t and probably never will. I always wanted kids, but I never wanted two lives. 

I know I’m very lucky compared to many other divorced moms and dads: the relationship with my ex-wife is pretty good, I get to see the kids regularly after school on my weeks off and I've fallen in love with a woman who accepted that I came as part of a package deal. 

I’ve learned to live with the week/week thing. It makes managing my work and travel schedule easier. But I’ll never get used to the deafening silence that descends upon our house ... every other Friday night. 

Inner Sanctum

TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHY BY PATRICK LA ROQUE

Should I even be here? I'm not entirely sure. My lack of faith, in many ways, has me feeling like an intruder. There's nothing public about this space — It's so obviously private, a hush permeating every square inch. Empty corridors, empty stairways, empty classrooms with empty chairs. The echoes of a bustling fraternity have long since faded, lost in the aftermath of the Quiet Revolution.

We enter a chapel I never knew existed and there's no one here but us. My friend signs himself; I simply bow my head in respect. He leads me to a door behind the altar: "I want to show you something" he says. There's a metal staircase leading down to the original foundations and... A crypt — A long room lined with dirt on either side and tombs dating back to the 1600s, a shovel making it clear this is not only about past, but present and future as well.

I walk in reverence, whispering.

We pass through another door and enter what first seems like a semi-abandoned storage area. But there's life here: potted plants are being tended to, small projects are obviously underway... And yet it's all perfectly still and frozen. In one room I find pictures, newspaper clippings, empty bottles and what appear to be small bone fragments on a shelf, all of it spanning decades or more; like the accumulated knick knacks of an immortal. 

This is a refuge.
I feel the awe of the explorer — And the guilt-ridden pangs of the invader.