Ode To 2011

Just a little something I made earlier.

xoxo

AtlasFound Revisited.

WHAT IS ATLASFOUND
AtlasFound is an ongoing project, a feast visage which began in the summer of 2010.
It's an ode to paganism, to adolesence, to glitter, to stairways. to the lunar cycle, to birthdays, to decadence, to bedrooms, to dressing up, to friendship, to pine trees, to abandoned ski slopes, to oil lamps, to picnic rugs, to face paint, to song.
It's a dream best accompanied by CAKE and CANDLES - a peak into the existence of tender young things in the brutal east end.
What began as an experiment between two close friends has become a collection of time stolen and cherished, to be taken out of it's drawer and presented with a flourish in the summer of 2012.
xoxo

Pre Winter Musings.

A narrative for these pictographs.

Sometimes I think my friends and I inhabit a parallel Newham. 

That is to say, we occupy a universe which does not exist for most East End residents.

We spend as little time as possible in the dreaded Westfield, and as much time as possible decorating our rooms with trinkets and tokens - as if their presence will ward off the grime from outside.

A lot of people who live here will always live here.

That frightens me beyond belief...

The Docklands Light Railway reminds me of that bit in Spirited Away:

all those who are eternally confined to The Sprawl end up, one way or another, like the transluscent ghosts in the aforementioned animation.

The pictures above may seem like a mish mash, but they are actually intrinsically linked.

We create havens (our rooms) and fill them with glow sticks, candles and mannequins who stand on guard by the window.

If you're lucky you'll have friends who arrive with sugar loaded drinks,

they'll have ran from their house to yours and you'll both attempt to forget the journey in between (when all they knew was grey people, dirt and a singular Magpie).

By nights end tongues will be stained the attractive shade of magenta,

pupils will be sufficiently dilated,

and breathing will seem to billow out of your lungs

at 2am

in the back garden.

Making you feel like a ship.

The street lamp works to dramatize the world outside.

Which is terrifyingly real,

and I don't mean muggers or rapists or gang crime or knives.

The real fear of The Sprawl emanates from the silent or the elderly.

The ones who never leave.

Showcase Cinema which exists in a vacuum.

Big Moe's diner which plays music from the worng era

and the guy who works there is eternally wiping the same spot on the same table to the same badly covered Kinks song being pumped through speakers like a toxin.

We live in quiet dystopia.

Sunset from the Alps sums up it all.

I beg you, Mr Timms, never to alter the abandoned Ski Slope on which I have enjoyed so much contemplation.

Vulnerable beneath you

are the tiny houses

and ominous before you

is the glare of Canary Warf.

Lovingly greet your Newham.

...OKAY okay guise, here's a cheer up.

Ruby Norton is a babe:)

She knitted me Duke Severus Tarquin III who now sits on my bed,

here covered in moon sequins to ring in the festive season.xoxoxoxxo

My mother also gives me presents,

which in turn give me era envy.

(another charm to add to my room)

A Disneyland Resort brochure from 1959.

xoxo

Fragments of Autumn.

There are ghosts in this house.

College is broken up by weekends spent under the careful watch of pylons with a special Lunar Lady who teaches me how to roll and sing.

This is what happens to yo' face when you spend three hours researching African American Civil Rights in LSE Library (which is 24 hours btw).

STARBUCKS PARTY TIME.

When us Kool Kidz thankfully surrender to the fruits of capitalism.

Every year I spend the first weekend of November in a Woodland retreat with my mother's side of the family. 

This used to be a mattress. 

Now it's all burned up and beautiful.

I can't comprehend how overwhelmed I was by yellow when I took this picture.

I named him Tarquin.

I named her Marge.

It's ironic that I'm mildly opposed to the wearing of the poppy, yet I'll thankfully stand and watch the symbolic burning of one of my Catholic Brothers.

I'm kidding.

I have no Catholic Brothers.

I just like pretending I'm a pagan.

There are ghosts in this house.

I pretended for a little bit that I was starring in a new Lars Von Trier film...

after about 10 minutes I decided I wasn't in the self mutilating mood.

Here is my Uncle David, who is actually rather tall,

looking rather dwarfed,

by this stone archway.

During the woodland retreat, a group of the adults usually walk to Chatsworth House on the Sunday morning. 

For those who don't know, Chatsworth is a grand old stately home, for you period drama lovers out there, it was used in the filming of Pride and Prejudice and The Duchess.

The younger members of the family usually stay around the log cabins, enjoying the quiet and the spa. 

This year I decided to go on the walk, and immediately slipped twice in my Wellingtons as I walked out the door. 

To be fair our cabin had a wooden verandah which gets very slippery in the wet.

No harm was done, except of course to my anxious temperament, which immediately jumped to suspicious conclusions, my double fall was obviously a bad omen condemning the country walk.

Regardless of what the fates had in store, the walk went splendidly. I arrived to Chatsworth rosy cheeked and high spirited, feeling quite the country bumpkin. 

The weekends achievements also included the discovery of a wishing tree, and glances of the moon in the morning sky.

My Uncle Keith admonishes me for my hyper-idealised love of the countryside.

He despairs at my lack of understanding of the processes behind the aesthetic, condemning my love as twee and superficial.

As a "country lad" by origin, I understand his despair.

Unfortunately, I am an individual who latches on to the aesthetic. 

Growing up amidst the sprawl of East London has taught me one thing, love majestic landscape and love it dearly.

I latch on to regional visuals, they inspire both my dreams and my writing.

The country is pretty, but it's real to me too.

I see pretty in decay, in a chick fallen from it's nest, a fox eating itself. (another Von Trier reference there.)

I know owls don't hoot in a choreographed fashion.

I'd sooner be bitten than have a dear lick my palm.

Shiny shiny,

shiny boots of leather.

Lastly I'll attempt to scare you with a couple of shots from The Last Tuesday Society's Danse Macabre pre drinks.

The best way to have fun is to get dressed up. Real dressed up.

xoxo