Junior Magazine //
Ellius Grace and George Voronov, the co-founders of Junior, were brought together through a mutual love of photography. Recognising the abundance of photographic talent coming up through the ranks in Dublin, Junior was born out of a desire to create a community around these young, emerging photographers. Issue #1 is appropriately themed around youth and features work from inimitable buzzer and talent that is Cáit Fahey, who shot the images for the Effecting a Culture: The Art of Fermentation feature this issue and a host of others including Ellius and George themselves. If you missed Ellius’ Icelandic photo series last issue, make sure to check it out over here.
The Best Gymnast In The World //
I don’t love sports, I didn’t do gymnastics as a kid and I never particularly “got” the Olympics. I do get Simone Biles however. Or, more accurately, I get good writing – writing with such confidence and velocity that you are halfway through a piece before you’ve had any consciousness of yourself. A profile on the American gymnast Biles by Reeves Wiedeman in a recent issue of the New Yorker gave rise to me for inward chuckle: I was reading – and reeling over – longform sports journalism. To summarise the facts: it would seem that come Rio 2016 Biles will be recognised as the greatest gymnast alive/to have ever lived.
What Wiedeman’s piece demonstrates is the extent of what one article can do. Think of it as one of those incredibly detailed paintings of a town brimming with life – like a Where’s Wally image or the Fleet Foxes album cover. Within a single image, you’re been given snapshot of a world, made up of the millions of stories and opinions that have ushered this moment into existence. Everything has detail. Esoterism is distilled into the accessible. Armed with the number of thousands of swarovski crystals on any given leotard and the history of oscillating artistic mores which define sporting success, Wiedeman gives you a fluency in something of which you knew nothing. This is writing so lithe, muscular, preened and powerful that it bounds for gold and succeeds time and time again.
I Remember //
It’s messing with me, I don’t know whether to go for a dance, or lie in my bed and cry.
Cesca Saunders //
As a rule, we like people who like us. Moreover, we love people who get in touch asking to contribute and proffer up nuggets of their talent. Illustrator/Animator/Visual Artist wunderkind Cesca Saunders did that and we set her to work illustrating the fabulous history of an artifice we often overlook: Daylight Savings. Have a look, she did a gooey, gorgeous job.
Take a gander over her website (cescasaunders.com ) and revel in her widespread wacky, willful creations laid out there. From video game character art to band posters, the brilliance of her range is matched only by the obvious attention she dedicates to each piece she pursues. A serious talent.
Mr. Silla //
Stop Making Sense //
About six months ago, my boyfriend reported having seen a screening of the Talking Heads’ concert film in the Lighthouse cinema. He was starry-eyed. It’s a thing they do regularly, apparently: There’s bar; an auditorium full of revellers; people get up and dance; they sing along, they talk, they party.
I was confused. Insofar as the logistics: where exactly does the dancing take place? In the aisles? Is that not a HSA violation? Or a fire hazard? Does everyone dance? Is one able to sit it out? When does the dancing begin? What’s the cue?
My questions extended to the piece’s essence: how can a recording of concert – a thing, the beauty of which is found in its transience – inspire such fervour and fun through film?
I can’t explain how, but Stop Making Sense transcends all of these concerns. A straight up recording of a concert is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in ages. You’re dancing wildly looking upwards at a screen for the first time. A band clad mostly in grey are the most colourful humans you’ve ever seen. David Byrne makes oversized suits sexy and cool. In truth, everything stops making sense.
It may not add up, all that beauty still emanating from a single gig in Los Angeles in 1983, filmed by the guy who made Silence of the Lambs. But the music is still gorgeous, the performance as fresh and zero-fucks as always, their joy as palpable now as it was then. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.
The Crash Reel //
This documentary follows Kevin Pearce, a young, loveable snowboarder who was on his way to becoming the top snowboarder in the world, overtaking his long time rival Shaun White. During training, however, a fall which nearly kills him instead leaves him with a Traumatic Brain Injury that changes his life. If you don’t shed a tear when the opening credits roll you are heartless and I don’t want you in my gang anymore.
The Middle of Nowhere //
Or, alternatively, humans fuck up.
The prologue focuses on a gigantic rubbish dump in the middle of the ocean.
Act 1 is a story about Nauru, an island in the middle of the pacific that has been physically destroyed for money, money, money. Its residents then tried to create finance by being a tax haven, and in the process pissed off Russia and the USofA. And most recently it was being paid by Australia to act as an immigration detention and offshore asylum.
And if you weren’t angry enough after all that, Act 2 deals with customer care and call-centres.
It’s a good one!