http://kingstontrinder.com ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ Tue, 16 Apr 2013 09:42:20 +0000 http://kingstontrinder.com en http://kingstontrinder.com/Milk-Tooth http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/Milk-Tooth Tue, 16 Apr 2013 09:42:20 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 5418928 The following is the first chapter from my forthcoming debut novel, Milk Tooth: MILK TOOTH, CHAPTER ONE: ‘She’s cunning’ was all he said. Vulpine, desperate for his affections, Mama wept & so did I as he returned me quiet to her forlorn, newly-mothered arms. Not four days had come to pass, & yet I now held his bitter dismissal. ************************************************************************************************************************** Rambling with whitest weatherboards & silent rooms, our house stood atop tussocked Messiah Hill. Wreathed about by wild marigolds & attentive dandelions, languorous wisteria & listless monarchs in the springtime, I’d spend my solitary hours watching the ladybirds & inquisitive cicadas fall about the flagstones, tracing paths for them with bitten fingers. Mama’s sun-coarsened & worn starched sheets threw long avian chiaroscuros across the grass, great migratory passes as the days wore quietly on, & behind the drapes in the drawing room Papa put pencil marks on the wall to show our heights. And I counted every day until I was as tall as Robin was. He & I would share paper bags of aniseed buttons, & I wished fiercely our long walks up the hill home were for always, for I was quite sure my chest could never again ache with such immense happiness. On those faraway days in summer when the sunshine spun golden threads over the fields & we saw the turquoise lizards clambering about the rockery, I’d forget our woollen school sleeves, thistle switches about my arms, & sometimes even George & Jude. Magpies called their unintelligible tales from the mulberries & I thought warily on how one had once entangled itself in Mama’s hair, & she’d cried so awfully when Papa had had to cut most of it out. Or when another had thrown itself at Jude & he’d had to swing his leather school satchel violently all about to save his eyes. Robin had told me that if you caught one & split his tongue you could readily teach him to speak, but I was always far far too afraid of course to ever find out the truth of that. Only an anxious glance at the loathsome gallon buttermilk bottles upon our doorstep basking lukewarm now in morning sunshine, drew me forth from my dawn reverie, for I knew I’d be frightfully ill with the very first glass. ‘Oh Phoebe, you mustn’t make such an dreadful fuss’, Mama implored ‘you know very well it’s all for your own good. Young bones must have plenty of calcium, & I shan’t have you end up at Hawthorne Manor with all those other forgotten waifs. Heaven on earth, can you imagine just what the Carsons would say?’ Shelling peas over our battered colander, she stood in demure floral sundress, impatient hand to her still comely hip. ‘But Mama’ I protested, ‘it makes me so ill, that buttermilk’s just so beastly, horribly warm, & it tastes just like frightened cock-a-billies. I’m quite sure I can feel them swimming right about my tonsils, circling my throat & then down, all the way down, right down into the very bottom of my stomach’. ‘Nonsense Phoebe you silly thing. You’ve surely the wildest imagination of any girl I’ve ever met. Must you make everything so very difficult? Why, can’t you be agreeable just once with me dearest? You know, George would never try me as you do. Couldn’t you be lovely for me like she is? You know this sort of quarrelling gives me the most terrible headaches’. ‘But Mama please’, I went on, ‘George is never ill, & I…-’ ‘I don’t want to hear another word from you Phoebe, I’ve heard quite enough for one morning. Just drink your buttermilk & run along with Robin into the garden, I’ll call you for teatime when I’m good & ready’. Why did she always do that? Didn’t she know how hard I tried to please her? Didn’t she know how truly awful George was? Scowling silently to myself, I swallowed the frightened tadpoles & ran to be ill alone in the bathroom once more. ‘Why did I have to be like George anyhow’ I asked the seahorses at the bottom of the bath, & cried bitterly when even they didn’t know. Even Robin could never tell me the answer, & he knew everything about almost everything. Which is why I was quite I should marry him one day. ****************************************** For as long as I could recall she had been his everything, his solace & his love. There were four of us, & yet it seemed there was only ever one, my elder sister George. Brazen with his affections as only a firstborn daughter can be, she paraded her immunity from his caprices & taunted me with his adoration. Delicate, a sycamore’s leaf, she’d bend him to her every whim, & look gleefully on as his loyalties were wrested once more from Robin & I. ‘How very beautiful George is’ he would say in a Papa’s awe to me. ‘Haven’t you seen how the wind wanders through her hair, like a lost biddy biddy? Or how her eyes are the seaside, & her fingers that of polished ivory? What a lovely sister to have Phoebe, aren’t you the luckiest girl in the world for her to be yours?’ I wasn’t. She was awful, & she knew I knew that she was nothing of the sort he willed himself to see. Yet she was never truly malicious in her way, & in hating her for taking him from us all, I saw the solitude of her pedestal. She could never be close to us, for how could she? What with the burden of Papa’s adoration, I saw she was never to be my sister, & deciding it better not to have one then to be betrayed by her as well, I too turned away. Besides, I didn’t want to be her anyway. ‘Will you come down to the creek with me?’ she asked one day, lonely through the summer when I was still very young. ‘You always go with Robin, but never with me’. ‘No George, not with you. I wont ever come with you. You’re cruel, & you only ever want to do the things you want to do. You don’t care about anything, & you always always tell my secrets to Papa, even when you say you wont’. I whispered to her one evening just before bedtime that the letter ‘E’ frightened me awfully. Serpentine, it coiled unpredictability across every page, lying in wait in almost every word it seemed. I would think I had escaped them in a sentence, & then, there was another, & another, & then another. George told Papa the very next morning. ‘Papa. Phoebe doesn’t like the letter ‘E’. She thinks it’s frightening like a snake, & she wont even write one, not even the ones in her name. Don’t you think that’s so so very silly?’ I’d even told her once about how sautéed mushrooms reminded me of flayed walrus pelts, a furrier’s bloody bounty, & that Mama’s omelettes made me so anxious, as anxious as those torturous bottles of sun-basking buttermilk. Or how I’d wanted to be a writer & that I thought my mystically palindromic birth had conferred something of a prophetic ability. She’d laughed callously away at all that as well, & conspired once more with Papa, thieves thick in my ousting. ‘It is very silly of course George, quite foolish’ he went on. But you must be kinder to Phoebe. She’s very shy & not nearly as thoughtful as you, as you know, largely I suspect on account of her wild imagination, & you must help her to learn all you have. She doesn’t find things quite as easily as you do darling, so be a lovely sister to her wont you, so that Papa has not just one but two beautiful girls to be very proud of’. I waited till Papa had left the den. ‘I’m never telling you a secret ever again George. Never. You always tell Papa everything, even when you cross your heart & hope to die. I wish you’d go & die George, you’re awful, & I hate you more than anything’. She pouted & flounced away, sure as always in his love. I didn’t go to the creek with her again after that, & I never whispered another secret. Although I felt such terrible guilt for hating her in her loneliness, & worried that because I wished her dead, I’d wake up one morning to find her so, I steadfastly refused ever to be her real friend. I mightn’t have a sister, but I shan’t be betrayed again by her I thought. She shouldn’t tell Papa my secret things I thought, they were for us. And if she couldn’t even keep those, then we shouldn’t be friends anyway. *************************************** I found Papa’s beaten oxblood wallet once, on the teak bureau he’d brought back from one of his buying excursions to the North. Amongst the train tickets & notes, the receipts & torn mementoes, there was only one photograph. It was if we’d never even registered. Exiled from his life, he’d fleetingly acknowledge us in our sun-dappled passageways as he passed us, taking her alone skating or to Vivian Park. Or he’d wanly smile at us over solemn dinners, forget us on our birthdays, & open our letters months after he’d returned. It was of George. *************************************** We’d forever conspire to make him ours, endlessly dreaming he’d see us for ourselves, bear us up in his arms & make us whole as only Papa could. Our eclipse would draw on, & he’d see that we too were just as good, just as besieged with idiosyncrasies & anxieties, just as wanting of his attentions, just as vulnerable. We were so achingly good to please him, & yet he was never joyous without her adoration. He’d gather up her indulgent smiles, draw him to his chest, & make her his alone. ‘Robin. Why do you think Papa only loves George & not us’ I asked him a few days after my seventh birthday, the one when he’d thought it was hers & gave her a beautiful fire engine red bicycle, even though hers had already passed in April, & mine was in May. ‘Nonsense Be, he doesn’t only love George, he’s just busy that’s all’. Robin was the only one allowed to use Be, his special name he’d given just for me. ‘You know how he’s always out & about, what with his furniture stores & Mama’s spells & all his errands, we can’t expect him to always be about, just for us.’ He turned his face from mine so I wouldn’t see his betrayed tears. ‘But Robin, haven’t you seen how he always remembers almost everything in the world about her?’ I went on, ‘or how he’s always bringing her flowers to press, or seashells to listen to, or pretty cardigans & bows from his holidays away with Mama? Or, what about that awful time we found our lovely peacock rocks at the quarry, & she kicked up such a terrible fuss that we’d found them all & she hadn’t, & Papa made us give her our shiniest one?’ Or what about when she…’ ‘Shut up Phoebe’ he cut in, but not entirely unkindly, tears now lacing his cheeks. ‘George’s so lovely to him’ he went on, less with conviction than with a sense of brotherly patience, ‘she’s so good to him that’s all, & she’s so beautiful, & Papa loves her so it’s true. She folds the linen just how she knows he likes it, & she’s so pleasing with her clarinet. She always remembers her etiquette, & she lays the table without even being asked. And she always always helps care for Mama, no matter how poorly she gets. You know Be, even Dr Saxton notices how lovely she is. Why, I even heard him say to her the other day that she could be a veterinarian when she grows up, if that’s what she wants’. ‘She couldn’t. She wouldn’t like to stain her dress with sunflowers, or get a horse’s tongue on her fingers. She doesn’t even like to make the soup with nettles & acorns & chestnuts, so I can’t see how she could ever look after one broken bird. What would she do if a giraffe had tonsillitis? Or an orang-utan suddenly had three babies? Or, what if Jacob had’… ‘Oh Be, I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Maybe she wont be a veterinarian when she grows up, maybe she’ll just have roast beef on Sundays & darn her husband’s trousers when they’re torn. All I know is that she is so good to him, always better than us, & she never ever bothers him with even the smallest trouble. Perhaps that’s the trouble, that we’re nuisances, or maybe we’re just naturally attracted to nuisances Be? ‘We’re not naturally attracted Robin’. He went on, lost now to reverie. ‘But we mustn’t hate her Be, its not her fault that Papa loves her the most. She didn’t choose it, did she?’ He’d admitted it without realising so, & I felt a bittersweet joy at having drawn his reluctant confession. I hated her. Why did George get to have all of Papa’s love when there were four of us? Why did she always have to make Robin cry when he was the loveliest of us all? And why was Papa so blind to all the troubles of George & Jude, & only ever saw when we had wronged him, & never ever when they did? I wiped his tears with my handkerchief, the one with the stolen deer’s tails & duck feathers, & held him tightly to my chest. ‘Be, I have to go’ he whispered as he drew forth from the sitting room. I think then I decided to marry him. He looked so terribly broken, so indescribably confused, his beautiful face laced with spurned affection & pain, that I thought, maybe if I could love him hard enough & forever, I wouldn’t ever need to see his torn face ever again. *************************************** 'I’m going to marry Robin’ I told Mama one September’s afternoon. He was my everything, my closest friend, my solace. To him alone I whispered all my secrets, revealed my treasures, & clambered alongside through all my fears. He was the kindest boy I knew, & he always looked entirely within my eyes when I told him things. I'd seen him tormented so many times by Jude. Even when he was very young, & I hadn’t yet arrived, he told me how he'd arrange his most beloved toys ever so slightly out of reach, in an infuriating circle. Then he'd sit gleefully, leisurely watching as he struggled in futile frustration to retrieve them, tears borne of betrayal only by a brother running in silent rivulets down across his stricken face. 'I'm going to marry him as soon as I'm old enough'. 'You can't' she said, not sharply. 'You can't because he's your brother. Brothers mustn’t marry their sisters, its simply not allowed’. ‘And besides’ she went on, ‘there’s so many lovely boys about, surely you’d want to marry one with sea green eyes, like Rupert? Or, what about an ever so tall one, like, oh, what’s that boy called? The one with the delicate ears? Peter’s his name, isn’t it? That’s right, Peter. ‘Or, what about Noah, the strapping boy with the wild golden hair? Surely you’d want to marry him when you grow up? A kind, strong boy to wander about with down by the creek, or tend the hedgerows on a Saturday, or take you skating when Lake Ceylon’s all iced over? Yes, Noah would be quite a wonderful husband I do believe. He’d gather you wildflowers in the evenings, ones to match your drapes, & he’d have a marvellous knack for fixing all your threads & bobbins, treadles & ends. Wouldn’t you want a lovely boy like that darling?’ ‘But Mama, I want only to marry Robin. He’s the boy I want, & I don’t care at all for Peter’s ears or Rupert’s eyes, or hedgerows on Sundays’. Who else could make the best pipes from clay or corncobs, or how to smoke a stolen cigar? Who knew where to find the peacock rocks, or how to find our secret cave at the very back of the garden, behind the conservatory? Who else could show me the pictures in the sky the stars made, or listen with me to snail’s shells, or make his fingers dance into zebras & crows before our candles? ‘Phoebe, you simply cannot marry Robin, he’s your brother & you’re his sister & that’s that’. Slowly the awful realisation dawned on me that perhaps she was telling the truth. Perhaps it was so & I couldn’t marry Robin? Perhaps if I willed it, she’d be wrong, & I’d be right, & we’d always be together. If only I could wish harder than ever, he’d be mine, whatever she might say. ‘Mama, I want to marry Robin’ I implored her. ‘I love him the most, of all the world’. I was on the verge of bitter tears now. Why didn’t she understand that if he & I were together forever, then nothing could ever touch us, not even Jude? That we’d always find nettle tea, or clovers to wish on, or treasures from the quarry, just for us? Mama grew impatient, for she was always so very ill & nothing brought on those endless days in her room like another one of our childish quarrels. Shuttered away with a profusion of seeming panaceas, boxes & vials that made her cry out through the eve, she would scratch at her withering wrists & tear at her tormented eyes. Her cries would punctuate our sullen hearts, furious with her for being so ill, &, perhaps worse, furious with ourselves for taxing her with our petty wants. ‘Damn it Phoebe Jane! Where on earth do you get these foolish, foolish notions from? You cannot marry Robin. He’s your brother, & as much as you love him, you simply can’t. It’s not allowed, & if you insist on always being so childish, I’ll have to send you away to your room. Sometimes I do wonder if all those stories you’re always devouring are any good for you, filling your head with nonsense & fancy as they do. And you give me such awful headaches with your wild thoughts Phoebe, something George would never ever do. If only you could be a little like her, just once, just for me, I’d be so very grateful. It isn’t such an ask is it, especially after all I’ve done for you? You’re all of ten now, you’re not a little girl anymore, & really, I do expect so much more from you. You know how ill I get when I’m frustrated even a trifle. Why, when I was ten, I had to take care of young Peter, James, Mother, Lucien & myself. And I must say Phoebe, I sometimes wonder if you’re even capable of that, merely looking after yourself, just once or twice’. I was defiant now, an anxious fever scrambling about my chest. ’Mama, I will marry Robin when I’m older, & you shan’t ever stop me. I am going to make him mine, you just wait & see. You don’t know everything in the world, & I don’t care what you say about husbands & brothers’. ‘Now don’t you go sassing me Phoebe Jane, I simply shan’t have such insolence! You’re being nothing but a foolish little girl, what with your asinine ideas, lord knows where you get them, & your thoughts of marrying Robin. Why, I’m starting to believe Mrs. Somerset might be right about whether you need to spend a or two term in remedial classes, learning how to be a proper, thoughtful young lady, not the stubborn imbecile you’ve been proving yourself of late. ‘You shut up Mama! I’m not a foolish little girl. It’s you’re the one that’s foolish, see, not I, & if you can’t see that I love Robin, & he loves me, & that we’ll be together forever & ever, why you’re even more foolish than Mrs. Somerset in her awful old raincoats & her terrible nose that turns up just as if she’d sellotaped it to her forehead, who doesn’t even believe sabre toothed tigers existed, but believes that angels do’. Vicious with indignant fury she slapped me hard about the face, rapid sharp blows that tore colour from my cheeks, & saw me smart with humiliation, & wounded pride. ‘Phoebe, I wont have another word more from you’ she said, coolly detached as she struck me once more, ‘you’re being nothing but a common guttersnipe. Only a churlish, wicked girl would call her ill Mama stupid, & I simply wont have it under my roof. I’ve a good mind to have Papa take his belt to you when he’- But her last words were lost to me. Anxious for her not to see my shame, I turned my tear-streaked face from hers, & fled for the sanctuary of the garden. She called me to her, but, defiant, I hated her forever, & the thought of it wrenched further sobs from my tearing chest as I pushed aside the ivy & clambered into the hollows I shared with Robin. I could hear her calling to me impatiently from the rockery, but she was lost to me already now. I retreated deeper into the warm bowels of the rich clay, groping forth at the dimly lit walls in grief, thinking only of him. He & I should run away together, Robin & I, away from her, from George & Jude, away from Papa, away from all of this tiredness where I couldn’t marry him & George was everything, & Jude could break us when he pleased. *************************************** November came & went, & in December’s storms Mama worsened. Her endless shuttered days became weeks on end, & Robin & I would write her letters & leave them outside her door. There they’d lay unread for hours, & Papa would collect them up as he went into to her. He alone was allowed to tend her sallow chest & sunken cheeks, brushing them with lukewarm water & peppermint oil in the vain hope she’d stir herself from her buried reverie. Vials & wild panaceas, desperate mithridates he’d devise, laced always with futility, she’d writhe & cry, begging him for morphine & sedatives, for Cutty Sark & cigarettes, for anything to stave off the throes of fevered agony that would take her carapace & discard it about the room. Wounded cries reverberated about the solemn rooms, & I knew then she would die. Burdened by such terrible knowledge, I was a traitor, a heretic, guilty of resignation despite Papa’s conviction that she would be restored, that the next day would always bring reprieves, that if we willed it hard enough, it’d be so. She’d gather her dressing gown about her, cast off her funereal butter sheets & descend the stairs with miraculous strength. We’d laugh in forgotten joy & clamber about her as she made pancakes & tea, whilst Papa smiled all the way to the rooftops, & Jude forgot to tear & devour us, for a time. ‘Mama’s going to die Robin’ I told him, after another awful morning of hearing her smash at the walls & thrash at the eaves, crying & shrieking, sobbing & dying. ‘She isn’t Be, Dr Saxton said she looked much better last Thursday’. ‘He always says that, he always tells Papa just exactly what he wants to hear. You know the terrible rage he falls into if he ever tells him Mama is still so very ill, & that she has months left before she’s well again’. ‘Dr Saxton wouldn’t lie to him Be. Besides he’s a doctor, & he knows all about every illness, & he’s sworn to tell the truth to Papa all the time about Mama’. ‘No he hasn’t. And he doesn’t know why Mama is ill, but he doesn’t want to tell Papa that, so he just keeps pretending he does. Don’t you remember when he told us that she’d be better for July, & its now December, & she’s still not even dressing herself or getting out of bed. She’s even worse now than then, & he can’t even tell us what do anymore, like he used to, when she first started spending all her days in her room’. ‘Shut up Be, that’s not true. You’re the one who doesn’t know a thing. He does know what to do, & he always knows which medicine Papa should get for her. Its just taking her longer to get better that’s all. She’ll be fine in another few more weeks & then you’ll see you just weren’t patient enough & that you didn’t want her to get better hard enough, that she just needs us to help her more, to look after Papa more like George does, or take care of the garden & the succulents in the rockery like Jude’. ‘You know Jude’s awful Robin, he doesn’t care at all for Mama, & he’s only doing those things so that Papa thinks he’s good. Well he isn’t, he isn’t good at all. You know that terrible smile in his eyes he gets when he hears her crying, or when he takes George up into his bedroom for the whole afternoon & she comes out so quietly pale, or when Papa isn’t looking & he makes the frogs in the rockery swallow Mama’s hatpins. Or, what about when he found that tired hedgehog once, & thrust a sharp stick into both its eyes & watched it wander about blinded till it died?’ Robin was silent with truth. He knew I was right, & he knew I wanted Mama to get better just as much as he did, he was just angry she wasn’t. If she was better, everything would be alright again we were both sure. Papa wouldn’t spend every evening till late in his furniture stores, & George wouldn’t be the most loved, & Jude wouldn’t be so very awful to us. ‘I’m sorry for telling you to shut up Be, I just don’t know what else to do anymore. I thought Papa & us had tried everything, but she isn’t getting any better is she? Perhaps you’re right & Dr Saxton doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. Maybe she just can’t get better, maybe she doesn’t even want to anymore. Oh Be, why is she always so ill? Do you think she did something terrible once, & now she’s being punished for it somehow? Or, is it because we don’t go to school sometimes & she doesn’t know? Or maybe she knows all about George & Jude & she wont tell Papa & now she’s ill because she knows how awful it is? Or, do you remember when you were still young & that man that wasn’t Papa came one Tuesday & they went upstairs & afterwards he tried to give us liquorice allsorts & you told him you only liked aniseed buttons? Maybe he hurt her somehow, or she told him someone else’s secrets & now she’s ill & can’t get better ever again?’ ‘I don’t know either. Maybe its true & she’s ill because she broke too many promises or told too many of other people’s secrets. Do you think its awful that sometimes I think maybe she will just die, & maybe that would be better for her?’ When I told those sorts of things to Robin, I never felt guilty about them, even though I knew Mama would die. I more felt guilty for not feeling guilty about often wishing she would die, because then at least she would be out of her misery. And her life was so terrible now I thought, always kept away in her room with the drapes shut & her dresser covered in boxes & bottles, & Dr Saxton always listening to her chest, & only being allowed out once a fortnight to take the sunshine with Papa, that surely even dying was better than all that? ‘Its not terrible Be, perhaps you’re right & she can’t go on living as she does. Maybe she should just die. I don’t know what to think anymore about it all, she doesn’t even seem to care about being alive, & whatever any of us does, it doesn’t seem to make any difference at all, does it?’ ‘No it doesn’t. I think she’s going to die no matter what Dr Saxton or George or Jude or even Papa says. She isn’t even interested in becoming alive anymore, so why would they know any better than she about whether she’s going to die or not?’ Quiet satisfaction came in telling my Robin the truth of things. He always seemed to have the answers for everything, which is why I loved him more than anyone, yet her dying seemed to silence him. He was the bravest I knew, even with Jude, but I knew he knew that I could see he was terrified & that he’d run out of answers for me, & what did that mean for him, & I, if he couldn’t even do that anymore? *************************************** Her room was now that of a mausoleum & I watched awfully as her dying spread further forth each day from beneath her door. Leprous clouds of exacting miasma thick with the warm funereal sweetness only the terminally ill expel, her grave billows tore upwards, suffocating the eaves & suffusing the passageways, enveloping the wainscoting & smothering the banisters, obscuring our lives with a thick subduing haze that left us all somnambulant & wild. And there in the midst stood Jude. Wreathed about with her clouds he was enormous now, nostrils breathlessly flaring as he drew more & more of her in, ravishing the last of her. Hungrily devouring her waning throes, sating himself on her wasted limbs & shattered cheeks he grew torpid in his feasting. Toying with her broken bones & ebbing marrow, he spat her finally out, spent, exhausted, delicious now in his languor. *************************************** Papa shouldn’t ever love Jude I knew. He was cruel, & he always laughed at broken birds & horse’s tears, or when kites tore over fences. He never saw Jude turn & smile gleefully into our eyes. Lustful & vicious, he’d watch us fall away, clamouring to take his vicious fingers to our thighs & chests, & everywhere else he pleased. Burning & scratching at us, he’d make us do the things that left me with a sweetly light-headedness, like that strange feeling I’d have when I too wanted to hurt beetles or dragonflies or cicadas, to tear at their wings & legs & watch them in agony. They’d look at me in betrayal & I’d smash them with my gleeful heels, clouds of sickness rising from their writhing corpses. Once we’d seen a man throw a kitten from a motorcar, & Papa had had to hit it over the head with a crescent wrench. He told us to look away as he carried it into a field, but I opened my eyes a tail, & watched Jude looking on in rapt fascination. There was a terrible smashing sound, as if Mama had dropped a watermelon upon the patio, & he gave me such a strange smile, a smile that made me so ill, that I was slightly ill in my mouth. I always had such trouble around Jude, such a metallic taste, as if the air about him was forever dark iron, clouding me throughout with something I couldn’t ever know the name of. The following is the first chapter from my forthcoming debut novel, Milk Tooth: MILK TOOTH, CHAPTER ONE: ‘She’s cunning’ was all he said. Vulpine,... http://kingstontrinder.com/U-S-A-Is-For-Lovers http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/U-S-A-Is-For-Lovers Sat, 27 Oct 2012 15:41:46 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 3978589 The following is an article for the October 2012 issue of Toilet Paper Magazine, concerning Plasticity. When I Think About You, I Touch Myself: <img src="http://payload83.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3978589/PRINCE.jpg" width="651" height="1000" width_o="651" height_o="1000" src_o="http://payload83.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3978589/PRINCE_o.jpg" data-mid="23415043" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload83.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3978589/265780.jpg" width="520" height="635" width_o="520" height_o="635" src_o="http://payload83.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3978589/265780_o.jpg" data-mid="29223058" border="0" align="left"/> Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night, an implacable urge at last took hold that late summer of a twelfth year. Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below. Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks & unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs & aching calves, & down to even more. Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations & deepest pleasures, Eros stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy. What divine rapture! What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to! And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy, that had lain latent for so very long. Buttered Parsnips & Courgettes. Vacuum Cleaners & Spatulas. Artichokes & Egg Beaters. Laundry Liquids & Oven Mitts. Olive Oil & Molasses. That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth. And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, & even Columbus could all be truly proud of. Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted & devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed, with every homemade apparatus possible. Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed & honed, years of heady experimentation, trial & Eros, fantasy & dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger orgasms. Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude? Adolescence gave forth to fledgling adulthood. And with it, an irrepressible desire to boldly go where no man, nor woman for that matter, had ever gone before. For despite the exhaustive inquiries made, with every material seemingly supposable, the joys of Plastic were never yet discovered. Until that is, one golden afternoon, now perhaps of a twenty-seventh year, a garden of otherworldly delights, a colourful trove of masturbatory aides, at last was chanced upon. Pandora’s box flung widely open! Eros’ cabinets gleefully sacked! Mother’s Tupperware promptly reconsidered! No need ever for another, here were all the delights ever conceivable, to truly pleasure oneself with. Shelves laden with vice, here were the Latex Gloves, the Plastic Phalluses, Luna Beads, Medical-Grade Silicon Mouths. And here, the Anal Plugs, the Rabbits, Eggs, Pearls & Cups. Here too were the Fancy Goose Charmers, the Vibrators, Inflatable Concubines, Wands, Masks & Wheels. Rings to rule them all. Oh glory of glories! Oh blessed day of days! Oh sweetest heavens! Plastic offers the final frontier in self-gratification. Elegant, thoughtful, exploratory & tasteful, Plastic is the returned lover, the faithful spouse, the cuckold, the cream, as it were, in your coffee. Textures, shapes & forms, new sensations & old flames, kindly sweetest Plastic will take you anytime, anywhere, anyway you please. Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness? The following is an article for the October 2012 issue of Toilet Paper Magazine, concerning Plasticity. When I Think About You, I Touch Myself: Swollen,... http://kingstontrinder.com/A-Magpie-s-Heist http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/A-Magpie-s-Heist Thu, 02 Aug 2012 20:28:22 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 3823020 The following is the cover article for the August 2012 issue of Collect Magazine concerning Antipodean nationalism. A Magpie's Heist Our Nation Makes: <img src="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/Cecil-Beaton2C-Queen-Elizabeth-II-in-Coronation-Robes2C-June-1953-28c29-V26A-images.jpg" width="670" height="831" width_o="1290" height_o="1600" src_o="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/Cecil-Beaton2C-Queen-Elizabeth-II-in-Coronation-Robes2C-June-1953-28c29-V26A-images_o.jpg" data-mid="21251368" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/539999_10151157898201069_795905746_n.jpg" width="670" height="480" width_o="960" height_o="688" src_o="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/539999_10151157898201069_795905746_n_o.jpg" data-mid="21256615" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/Powerhouse_Museum_Collection_-_Kookaburras_pd.jpg" width="670" height="507" width_o="1024" height_o="775" src_o="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/Powerhouse_Museum_Collection_-_Kookaburras_pd_o.jpg" data-mid="21256770" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/JACKSON - I.jpg" width="453" height="604" width_o="453" height_o="604" src_o="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/JACKSON - I_o.jpg" data-mid="25291684" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/7.jpeg" width="616" height="243" width_o="616" height_o="243" src_o="http://payload76.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/3823020/7_o.jpeg" data-mid="27798914" border="0" align="left"/>Mother raised her wary head. Reluctantly abandoning a rather delicious butterscotch tart, cup of tea went returned to elegant saucer, tartan throw drawn quietly about an aged throat. Something decidedly queer, the likes of which she couldn’t quite lay her hand upon, had disturbed a rather idyllic afternoon. Mother however was a woman of iron constitution. And shaking herself in grave annoyance, for her afternoons, you must understand, were sacrosanct, she fixed her gaze upon the horizon. Yet even she hadn’t imagined the sight that was to confront her. For the very heavens themselves were swathed about by black, drowned beneath the beating of a thousand cacophonous wings. Gathered now in stoic defiance, as was her customary manner when defying such aggressors, Mother adjusted her royal visage, noble carriage rising gallant forth, & braced herself before the tyrannous onslaught. The Magpies were coming. Nineteen thirty-one stands forever as Britain’s great year of industry. Australia. Canada. Ireland. South Africa. New Zealand. For wise King George’s benevolent hand had risen at long last over the rose smeared charts & atlases of Empire, & issued forth a rather remarkable proclamation. Unshackle our brothers. Lower the Jacks. Set finally the Sun. Retire the Colonels. And have Mother home on the next steamer bound for London. Best of luck, George. Our history’s pleasant convenience, if ever a symbolic genesis for Australian nationhood were needed, nineteen thirty-one’s Westminster Statute serves rather nicely. For essentially it marked the legislative independence of our nation, either immediately or upon due ratification, & we became citizens in our own right. No longer exotic handmaidens retained at His Majesty’s pleasure, we were now, in theory, an independent nation, resplendent with all those wonderful trappings of such; the right to self-governance, international acknowledgment, national holidays & commemorative teaspoons. That sort of lark. But a royal telegram does not a nation make. And although we may've had legislative sovereignty, we certainly hadn’t yet true national identity. Now came the Magpies, successive waves of post-colonial, post-war immigrants undertaking that great southern migration to our golden shores. Fleeing persecution, destruction & memory, seeking fortune, reinvention & adventure, we Magpies went about decorating our marvellous new nest over the following decades with whichever gleamed brightest, whichever caught our eyes & imaginations. Holland’s seamanship. Italy’s faith. Britain’s education. America’s architecture. Lebanon’s falafels. Even our most iconic of pastimes, the grilling of raw flesh over small braziers, the great Australian barbeque, hails from the Spanish. Excitedly gathering our spoils, we set then to building the nation’s identity, the nest now a storehouse of cultural appropriations & mythologies, imaginings of Old countries, traditions or heritages, wherever they might’ve been. But in the exhilaration of our heist, our construction, it seems we forgot three fundamental elements in the creation of our national identity, & thus, the foundation of our nationalism. Firstly, Mother was a gluttonous cuckoo. Unlawfully installed some two hundred & twenty five years earlier by her grasping father, Empire himself, she’d delightedly gone about constructing her nest within another’s. What then of our original inhabitants, the Indigenous? One can’t imagine they were altogether partial to our forefather’s bloody invasions. Nor our own successive waves of genocide, appropriation, cultural displacement & continued social discrimination. Indigenous Australians themselves were decreed citizens of their own nation, only in nineteen sixty-seven. Terra Nullius. More daylight Corroboree. Nationalism’s rather a difficult ask when said nation is constructed upon such seismically volatile, divisive foundations; Job himself desperately hammering & sawing amongst the Hill’s Hoists, the chrome milk bars & weary outer suburbs. And until our nation has made more lasting attempts at atonement, at reparation & recognition, at redressing that atrocious gulf that continues to exist between Indigenous & Non-Indigenous Australians, in income & in health, employment & incarceration, literacy & infant mortality, truly holistic, inclusive nationalism appears still some time away. Not to say of course it’s an impossibility. Take America. Forty-four years after the abolition of segregation & they’ve elected their first African American president, a half-Kenyan chap, from Hawaii, with an unmistakeably Muslim moniker no less. Abraham smiles broadly from above. Luther-King need dream no more. Yet such reconciliation required a sincere desire on the part of a majority citizenry to realise such; one wonders whether the average suburban Australian in fact holds such an aspiration, given for example, the negligible compensation paid to traditional landowners by mining corporations, as unregulated by state. Or the conspicuous Indigenous absence from our popular media. Perhaps it’s simply a case of out of sight, far from mind for our fair nation? Perhaps significant revisions to our schools’ curriculums might redress a multitude of lacking sympathies & cultural misunderstandings? Is it simply a case of establishing a framework for broader dialogue between our multiracial citizenry? And has it all just been some dreadful misunderstanding, exacerbated by modernisation, social transformation & urbanisation? Or is that the earnest warble of liberal middleclass idealism, once more neatly evading culpability by claiming cultural naivety? Or worse, cultural relativism? Either which way, recognition, beyond Rudd’s mournful keening, & tangible wide scale atonement, for the Stolen Generation, land appropriation & continued discrimination, remain necessities in remedying our golden nation’s apparent myopia. Awaken your national consciousness. Write tomorrow. Believe your eyes. Secondly, every nest, & every nation’s nationalism, requires an adhesive agent, saliva or otherwise, in order to exist. Furthermore, that agent, external or internal often takes innumerable form. Whether it be civil wars or revolutions, ideological or theological consistencies, internal or external conflicts, defying or being defined by self or other, Australia it appears, hasn’t yet found her universal binding element. America for example had a western frontier, a civil war & a national adulation of capitalism. What, after all, is the ironsmith without his forge? Although we ceased being the grist to the mills of our Mother nation’s conflicts long ago, or being her granaries, wantonly raided whenever pleased, often it seems we’ve only replaced one empire’s flag with another, Old Glory, in searching for ourselves. No definitive quality has yet to emerge that might be said to be quintessentially & unequivocally Australian. Certainly, we claim to exalt egalitarianism & meritocracy, which to a degree, albeit relative to other nations, bears some truth. However when one examines the disparities between genders & races, in terms of say, economic success or cabinet appointment, such declarations appear far less tenable. One is simply astounded by the remarkable numbers of Indigenous candidates being elected to office every year. Or finding themselves once more delightedly declaring incomes in excess of the highest tax thresholds. Only when Australia elects a non-European Prime Minister, or claims, rather paradoxically, more tax from our original inhabitants & minorities, might our national identity begin to take more discernible form. And although our economy is now one of the world’s strongest, one wonders whether perhaps our majority middle class obscures a multitude of other deficiencies, both economic & social? Just in who’s gravy boats & marmalade jars exactly are all those pennies found? Environmentalism is another quality often assigned to our national identity. But given the fact that Australians are now responsible for producing more carbon emissions per capita than any other nation on earth, that too seems an equally untenable claim. Noting too our relatively small population sizes, relative to our nation’s, Australia being larger than Western Europe, with a population just over twenty two & a half million, about a third that of Great Britain’s, one wonders whether any environmentalism we may lay claim might be largely circumstantial? One cannot hope after all to devastate a continent with the numbers we have. Back we hasten then it seems to the nation’s drawing boards. Finally, every nation requires a thorough knowledge & recognition of her conception. And by extension, a knowledge of her history, in order to both approach her future with some degree of clarity, & continue assuring the coherence of her national identity. One cannot know where one is journeying, without first knowing where one has journeyed. Australia’s genesis lies in colonial superimposition, gone somewhat awry, colliding with the Pacific, & all her own attendant geographic & cultural idiosyncrasies. Island penitentiary to idealised arcadia, our nation voyaged on beneath a gallant Union Jack, & arguably, in many ways, still does, well into the twentieth century. Naturally Britain left her indelible hand across much of what constitutes us. And if we take final colonial independence as the definitive juncture of our fair nation’s founding, the passing of the Australia Act in nineteen eighty six, notwithstanding the tenancy of our original inhabitants, why we’re all of just twenty-six years old. Parisian fire hydrants & Roman streetlamps look altogether antiquarian by comparison. Crowned vicenarians, our nation one might surmise, is floundering still in darkest adolescence. A nation’s chronology doesn’t of course account for more ethnological considerations in revealing & assuring her identity’s comprehensiveness. The Indigenous Australians believe our existences, & the existence of Australia herself, relies upon the continued recounting of the Songlines, those songs sung by ancestral beings as they wandered over the continent during the Dreamtime, calling the world into existence. But as our landscapes go irrevocably transformed by large-scale mining operations & urban & suburban developments, that nation once sung into existence is rapidly disappearing. Exacerbated too by an Indigenous population now less than three per cent of the nation’s, & thus ever fewer voices, one wonders what, if anything, will be sung into existence tomorrow? What are the repercussions for nationhood so long steeped in song, if those songs forever cease? Correspondingly, what of neglecting that pantheon of ancestral beings & spirits said to determine our existences, our habitation of landscape? What are the consequences for excluding these more abstracted considerations from our nation’s constitution? Too, let us not forget all the other theologies, belief systems & worldviews that now exist within Australia, the result of successive immigrations from every corner of the globe. What possibility have we of acquiring true nationalism, nationalism we can all wholeheartedly possess, if we make only symbolic gestures at inclusion? What hope has the cohesion of our national identity when we acknowledge only the tangible, or those citizens most vehement or influential? One might be forgiven for assuming, on first glance, that Australia doesn’t in fact possess a national identity at all. All the symbolic manifestations of nationhood, cuisine, language, costume & ideology, at times still seem remarkably absent from our shores. Where, for example does one acquire the finest Australian cuisine, the quintessence of national dress? The English of course have anoraks & frowns, plenty of rain & unyielding class subjugation. The French, chateaus, existentialism & foie gras. The Chinese, fireworks & Mao. Of course, we haven’t that rich history of aggrandizement of neither Europe nor Asia, nor close proximity to the cultures of Other. However, one does still wonder, what exactly have we, save the last vestiges of monarchy, the mythologies of wars long past, & increasing degrees of American emulation? Multiculturalism that’s what, nominal & otherwise. And it’s the unmistakeably Australian adaptation of those myriad cultures that constitute our national identity. Undeniably a curatorial exercise, a magpie’s collection of gleaming spoils, we’ve gathered whatever we’ve desired, & furnished ourselves a fine nation from the resultant mêlée. Melbourne, Australia’s second largest city for example, is second only to Athens, worldwide, for its Greek population per capita. And second only to Israel for its population of holocaust survivors. Nguyễn, a Vietnamese surname, is the city telephone directory’s second most common, after Smith. Fascinating statistics undeniably, what’s perhaps more interesting however are the cultural mutations these encompass. Melbourne’s Vietnamese children are naturally somewhat different from Hanoi’s, as are Sydney’s Japanese lasses from Tokyo’s, Adelaide’s Peruvian chaps from Lima’s. For in that wonderful process known as acculturation, that is, the acquiring of one’s culture, a rather remarlable transformation occurs when one isn’t born either to their native culture, or one immigrates. In migration, worlds truly collide. The resultant cultural hybridisation, often hyper-contextualised, bears scant resemblance to the culture, or cultures, responsible for its original creation. And those mutations in turn transform the host culture they’re subsequently amalgamated with. About a quarter of Australia’s population, over five & a half million individuals were born abroad. Acknowledging too the multitudes of ever-increasing first generation Australians, the nation, although still in deepest gestation, is rapidly gathering a national cohesiveness. For ours is a cohesion born of those composite selves, immigrants, constructing in tandem, a nation upon lands relatively uninfluenced by extensive, tangible histories or pre-existing models of nationalism. Notwithstanding our original inhabitants, our slates are somewhat less smudged than say those of Europe or the Americas. Of course, multiculturalism isn’t exclusive to the Antipodes. But what is are our characteristically Australian interpretations of those cultures that have found their way to our shores, in whichever form. And although we’ve not yet an extensive history of nationalism, in the traditional sense, we’ve certainly already laid a twig or three in erecting our great nest in the southern sky. Now Mother, isn’t it time we began preparing ourselves for our expectant visitors? Those scones won’t butter themselves & as for the kettle, why, it’d be a national shame to serve them from such an abomination. Come, we’ve plenty of work to do before those young Magpies arrive, & before we have you on your way. You can’t stay upon our banknotes & constitutions forever you know; dawn’s fast approaching. Kingston Trinder isn’t Australian. He’s also not a journalist. He is however, rather fond of Cream Teas, & Lamingtons. You can find him here. The following is the cover article for the August 2012 issue of Collect Magazine concerning Antipodean nationalism. A Magpie's Heist Our Nation Makes: Mother... http://kingstontrinder.com/Adidas-Originals http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/Adidas-Originals Thu, 02 Aug 2012 20:27:08 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 3583618 Adidas Originals adidas commenced its 2013 global campaign, unite all originals, with an extraordinary visual collision between Producer A-Trak, & Director So Me. Encompassing the notion that all originals collide, that is, they collide elements from a number of inspirations & worlds to create ever-new expressions of originality, unite all originals is a dynamic & unexpected evolution for adidas. Portraying a variety of originals, uniting in colliding fashions, lifestyles, influences & cultural emphases, the 90 second TVC also introduces the audience to the brand's multi-platform campaign, including its digital collider application. View adidas's unite all originals TVC below & visit the originals collider here. Client: Adidas Originals Agency: Sid Lee Montreal Executive Creative Director: Kris Manchester Creative Directors: Jean Francois Dumais, Ness Higson, Simon Schmitt, & Charles Hall Art Directors: Ruben Beddeleem, Lana Shahmoradian, Sofia Gillstrom, & Henrik Leichsenring Copywriters: Joeseph Hagel & Kingston Trinder Designers: Antonin Bg & Danny Demers Director: So Me Production: Iconoclast Adidas Originals adidas commenced its 2013 global campaign, unite all originals, with an extraordinary visual collision between Producer A-Trak, & Director So Me. ... http://kingstontrinder.com/Sketches-Archive http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/Sketches-Archive Sat, 10 Mar 2012 17:56:29 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 2978295 <img src="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/4810375216_de5cb4fd1e_z.jpg" width="514" height="640" width_o="514" height_o="640" src_o="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/4810375216_de5cb4fd1e_z_o.jpg" data-mid="15168402" border="0" align="left"/>Cyrus Engineer is a Seamstress, Raconteur, Devout Parsi, Slow Ruminant & Rhapsodist. Golden planes of exalted antiquity, vales of mosque & dusk bazaar, beneath canvas fold & wisest elder's tale, Gaia herself cried forth. Cleansed by lamplight, frankincense and myrrh, blessed ecstatic with rosehip & sesame, the lambs of that nomadic flock fell quiet before the night. And rising then rhythmic, cacophonous, sounded conch & palm frond, Ram's horn & Jericho's lute, kettledrum & beaten doumbek, came the jubilant cry from across the land of Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus! Mulligatawny soup & peppermint tea, date grove clouded by savage mirage, the raven-tressed monarch tended goat & juniper hedgerow, carved calabash & laboured monastic, devouring the vellum tomes of his ancient forebears, strengthening by the very hour. Until that is, the coming of the White Man. Journeying on to the East, possessions tethered to quarrelsome mule, the wanderers suffered long through Thesiger's privations & barbarous suns, cruellest sandstorms & Jurassic thieves, before collapsing fatigued at last upon the fertile shores of the Arabian Sea. Wounds tended, White Man evaded, the Engineers mourned their fallen, drums & brows beaten in forlorn staccato, before clattering up the gangplank of a galleon bound for that fabled land of milk & honey, & children capering irrespective of colour, idyllic Brisbane. Cyrus swam slender about adolescence, courting fallen lasses, western melodies & the forbidden pleasures of Information Technology, prostrating himself before the altars of the Fire Temple in desperate atonement, quite to Mama Engineer’s despair. Yet all of course went entirely in vain. For wayward Cyrus had discovered now an inestimably more venomous vice, that darkest craft we know only as Textile Design. Kaleidoscopic fragmentations of found image & fractured photograph, all the disjectral membra, the reflective musings of a peripatetic aesthete, Cyrus’s remarkable bodysuits quietly collide the mechanical with the organic. Gathered from about the world, glass & steel court leaf, stamen & bough in constructions of futurist carapace. Exoskeletons that transform their wearers into unearthly hybrids of meticulous geometry, symmetry & surreal palette, such superimpositions of form inspire a re-conception of physicality, shape, & even perhaps beauty. Microcosms too of their creator’s myriad influences, explorations & intimations, these are the incisive masterworks of a man who has seen a great deal, & truly lived to tell the tale. Exalt then I say the Man who may well be our King. www.cyrus-engineer.com/design/ <img src="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/KAWAUCHI fish.jpg" width="400" height="400" width_o="400" height_o="400" src_o="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/KAWAUCHI fish_o.jpg" data-mid="15168472" border="0" align="left"/>Leonard Gitonga is an Architect, Jeweller, Sartorialist, Scholar & Gentleman. Amidst Margaret & George, & an amiable monkey by the name of El Nino, deep in the heart of the dark savannah, beneath the lengthening shadow of Mt. Kenya, stands the old British garrison town of Nanyuki. Son of a merchant seaman, brother to Jehovah witnessed, Leonard Gitonga was a curious, mischievous child, fascinated by mathematics & painting alike. Raised upon proud Kenyan nationalism & the Queen’s decorum in equal measure, in time, Leonard duly boarded a steamer bound for Melbourne & the intellectual rigours of architectural inquiry. Yet the detached rationalism of such an endeavour left him altogether rather dissatisfied. And come one languorous Indian summer, when the heavens clouded with maelstrom & zephyr alike, he rose well before dawn, gathered bottle-tops & broken masks, goat’s charms & cow’s bells, mythic bones & neglected feathers, & quietly set to work. Leonard’s inaugural collection is one of salvage & preservation. Born of an Africa suffused with Europe, transported to another colonial nation clamouring sill in many ways for a lucid identity, these curiosities tell of his attempts at identification, both within & without himself, & his subsequent transformation. Integration necessitates degrees of negotiation. Yet inevitably we court jeopardy in adapting for such; negating our pasts to facilitate our futures, demanding obscurity for sake of sought harmony, denying individuality in favour of uniformity. Imposing that dialogue upon his jewellery, traditional markers of identity, distinction, status & allegiance, the resultant abstractions, sculptural yet organic, reveal that multiplicity of self, & its forever metamorphosis, both in acculturation & in continued actualisation. Fraught with proud tooth, nail & noose, they are neither apologetic nor explanatory, nor even conciliatory. Rather, they are vivid, striking manifestations of that negotiation, one wild-eyed young Kenyan’s attempt to understand where & what, & whom & why. And what’s the worth of it all anyhow? Or so he likes to think. The above was a biographical sketch conducted for Apartamento Magazine. <img src="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/swiss_alps_snowypeaks1.jpg" width="600" height="402" width_o="600" height_o="402" src_o="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/swiss_alps_snowypeaks1_o.jpg" data-mid="15168578" border="0" align="left"/>Lars Wannop is a Peripatetic, Sophist, Questionable Clairvoyant, Polyglot & Printmaker. Lupine gathered from the banks of that majestic creek, borne forth over those dappled knolls, blessed triumphant with the name of last hope, Lars Wannop stood towering, sun-kissed amidst his Scandinavian kin. Nourished on ambrosial breast & arcadian pasture, all the stolen spoils of neglected orchards & occasional terrariums, the boy tired swift of country persuasions. Elm bough fashioned into workable staff, hounds tooth kerchief knotted into passable knapsack, wanderlust drove him lithe Masai, shepherd rambling over childhood's trampled lanes & down at last into the majestic avenues of that fair metropolis, Adelaide. Kerned & pasted, coloured & crafted, fleece chiaroscuro duly grasped, Odysseus boarded his coracle, journeying North now for those mythic lands of coliseums & drawn tea, alpenhorns & tulip blossoms, fondue & prosciutto. Loved by Lithuania, hands battered by cadaver’s flesh, ivory minarets once more sounded his fair name. And by benevolent decree of another soothsayer, Lars found himself upon the banks of the River Styx, bound for that fearsome abyss known only as Advertising, Art Director engraved indelible across his weary brow. Hark! Cried the heavens, for he was destined yet for greater deeds. Coracle boarded anew, bound for South, the young gadabout reached instead for linoleum & gouge, seeking perhaps less tangible explorations, traverses of inland empires. Deep swathes of richest symbolism, stark reflections of self & other, a welcomed aberration in a sea of mechanical insincerity, Lars' lino-cuts are in many ways, beautiful anachronisms, the elaborate flotsam of another forgotten time. Medium aside, his subjects are portrayed not as zoological curiosities suspended forever in formaldehyde, but rather, as members of a breathing, vigorous pantheon, rulers & revered monarchs, blessed creators of the future. Adorned in the regalia of a Titan, hides & feathers, cochineal & magenta, spear & burnt bow, armour & arrow. Icarus immortalised for all posterity, these are the portraits of our fair King's horses, men & women of zeitgeist, due reverence, immense talent & fathomless honour. For birds of a feather do, after all, flock together. www.larswannop.com <img src="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/ketchclosehaul-620x584.jpg" width="620" height="584" width_o="620" height_o="584" src_o="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/ketchclosehaul-620x584_o.jpg" data-mid="15168629" border="0" align="left"/>Hiroyasu Tsuri is a Painter, Illustrator, Occasional Karaoke Dream, Ceramicist & Rogue. Dawn gathered quietly over the land of the rising sun. And from the very depths of the Pacific rose a majestic golden carp, scales gilded by brilliant sunshine, tail writhing wild, yearning for answer & adventure. Drawn ashore at Yokohama, the village’s fisherman clustered curious now about their mythic catch. Gazing with wordless wonder whilst he shook himself of their great nets, gills expanding, heavy still with resisted capture, swift deliberation began in earnest as to just who should possess that bewitching sea-beast. Overhearing the fisherman’s keening, two kindly schoolmasters made their way through the crowd’s thicket. And there he lay now upon a manger of richest kelp, bewildered yet strangely stoic, courageous eyes wandering over the quiet horde. Clouded with tenderness, for despite all their wants they were still without child, their irises duly caught his, welcoming their claim. Rapturous then, they held him aloft, proudly pronouncing him Hiroyasu Tsuri before the applauding throng. Saturated by skateboard, anime, dynamic graffiti & street-art, Hiroyasu sketched & painted his schooldays away before journeying forth, south across the seas, bound for that fabled city of horse bazaars, lesser saints & paintable nights, Melbourne, fast becoming known now only as the mysterious Twoone. Exploratory negotiations of self & other Twoone’s abstract illustrations, paintings & sculptures employ myriad recognisable animal forms, often juxtaposed by more mechanical ones. Stark line intersects with antler, geometric shape & fiercest angle corral calf & tail, brutal bar & border frame tusk, talon & tongue. Salvaging paint cans & battered planks, splicing clay with leather, iron & bone, linocut & etching strike line drawing & found object in surreal compositions that betray Twoone’s equally diverse influences. Nevertheless there’s an unexpected symmetry throughout, & despite an undeniable thread of the macabre, the haphazard, Twoone’s work retains a light heartedness, a mischievousness that continues to garner him increasing attention through successful solo exhibitions, commissions & live performances. Yet all of this is only a beginning. For the man stood at the foot of Mt. Fuji, can think of nothing else save her summit. And an elephant never forgets. www.twooneelephant.com <img src="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/TRAMS.png" width="670" height="477" width_o="1026" height_o="731" src_o="http://payload33.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2978295/TRAMS_o.png" data-mid="18518112" border="0" align="left"/>Gabriel Gesualdi is an Aristocrat, Visionary, Somewhat Video Artist, Sorcerer, & Spanish Inquirer. Wreathed in altitudinous cloud, a verdant plateau stands high amidst the scythed Andean summits. And it was here, cross-legged & beatific, adorned with all the amulets & feathers of their forbears, the Sages’ gnarled hands rose in ecstasy. For after many days of monastic application, levitation & hallucination, a channelling of celestial consciousness & transcendental energy, they found themselves engulfed now by a great magnesial light. Consumed thus, chameleon hesitated, tapir ceased, toucan too fell silent. Hawking’s quarrel, space & time went quietened before the eclipse. The Sages’ imaginations gathered cacophonous, Ra’s golden chorus, & in a brilliant flash of arcing light & answered sound, Gabriel Gesualdi, from chaos sprung, came triumphant into being. Enshrouded with Mayan tapestry, bathed by pomegranate & agapanthus, bowed devotees bore the immaculate Gabriel down from those hallowed lands of the sky for that coastal idyll, that Jerusalem of the Spanish south we know as Buenos Aires. For it was amongst his people the young prophet was to dwell, somewhere deep of course in Outer Suburbia. Raised by kindest hand, Gabriel knew nothing of his fate. Drawing away at his lessons, tending a medium Grandmother’s memories, zealously excavating his unconscious, the young Sage chanced one lantern’s eve upon a mysterious contraption, the nature of which he’d never laid eyes upon. Examined meticulous, held aloft in wild excited arms, despite his fiercest enquiry, the contraption would divulge nothing. A chance encounter with an attentive nurseryman however, & Gabriel possessed he saw, the essence of all his known universes, & the source of all the world’s most moving pictures, a Video Camera. Sweetest revelation! Ecstatic Actualisation! Blessed Madonna! At long last, a realm within which he might truly express his every vision! And hastening to Film School, Gabriel indeed set to directing those masterpieces. Works of colourful nostalgia, ingenious construction, startling simplicity, his films are rich exploratory forays into yesteryear’s imagination. Savouring handcrafted form, transparency of working & narrative, analogue & digital go seamlessly bound in these contemporary reinterpretations of old modes of creation. Illusory, for these aren’t in any way, naive exercises, Gabriel’s often surreal work is instead a conscious return to a time when motion’s splendour hadn’t yet become anachronistic, drowned beneath a deluge of higher resolutions, faster frame rates & demanded special effects. Truth needn’t be encumbered by vacuous elaboration, nor knowledge itself go convoluted; our Gabriel has seen the truth, & returned to tell her tales. Leaving as he does, the doors of perception slightly ajar. http://cargocollective.com/yesitdoes Cyrus Engineer is a Seamstress, Raconteur, Devout Parsi, Slow Ruminant & Rhapsodist. Golden planes of exalted antiquity, vales of mosque & dusk bazaar, beneath... http://kingstontrinder.com/The-Two-Dollar-Grand-Prix http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/The-Two-Dollar-Grand-Prix Wed, 22 Feb 2012 21:43:42 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 2010159 The Two Dollar Grand Prix Ford Australia sought to counter an assortment of popular mythologies surrounding LPG fuelled vehicles with an eclectic digital execution; The Two Dollar Grand Prix. Directly engaging competitor's models to reveal their new Falcon EcoLPI's various innovations; Toyota's Corolla, famed for its fuel efficiency & Holden's Commodore, renowned for its unrivalled power & torque, an entertaining grand prix event featuring Ford motoring star Mark Winterbottom was devised, all with only two dollars. Addressing an active online audience of highly knowledgeable yet ultimately skeptical vehicle enthusiasts, the event was publicised across a number of digital channels including web banners, microsite embeddings, Youtube executions, Ford's vehicle sites & other assorted motoring forums. View Ford's Two Dollar Grand Prix & Publicity Trailer Below. Client: Ford Motors Australia Agency: JWT Melbourne Creative Director: Richard Muntz Art Director: Dominic Prevost Copywriter: Kingston Trinder Director: Wes Greene Production: Nalu Productions The Two Dollar Grand Prix Ford Australia sought to counter an assortment of popular mythologies surrounding LPG fuelled vehicles with an eclectic digital... http://kingstontrinder.com/The-Idlewild-Soundsystem http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/The-Idlewild-Soundsystem Thu, 15 Sep 2011 21:33:20 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 2010162 A Series Of Marvellous Mix-tapes, For Every Occasion. <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/L10500971.jpg" width="597" height="401" width_o="597" height_o="401" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/L10500971_o.jpg" data-mid="9993039" border="0" align="left"/> Everybody Loves The Sunshine: 1. Air France, It Feels Good To Be Around You 2. Washed Out, Echoes 3. Blood Orange, Dinner 4. Cat's Eye, Over You 5. Dee Edwards, Why Can't There Be Love 6. Toro Y Moi, Talamak 7. Regal Safari, Only 8. Summer Camp, I Want You 9. Neon Indian, Polish Girl 10. Cults, Go Outside 11. Cut Copy, Take Me Over 12. Dom, Living In America 13. Gil Scott-Heron & Jamie XX, I'll Take Care Of You 14. Metronomy, The Bay 15. Memory Tapes, Today Is Our Life 16. Nujabes, Ordinary Joe Featuring Terry Callier 17. New Villager, Rich Doors 18. Future Islands, Before The Bridge <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/FOR CARGO.jpg" width="500" height="531" width_o="500" height_o="531" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/FOR CARGO_o.jpg" data-mid="9996895" border="0" align="left"/> Because The Night Belongs To Lovers: 1. The Deloreans, Dandelion 2. TV Girl, If You Want It, You Got It 3. Lana Del Rey, Video Games 4. Yacht, Psychic City, Classixx Remix 5. Hard Mix, Memories 6. Mr Little Jeans, The Suburbs, Arcade Fire Cover 7. Cottam, B-Side, EP Two 8. J Dilla, So Far To Go, Featuring Common & D'Angelo 9. Cassius, I Love You So 10. Sébastien Tellier, L'Amour Et La Violence 11. Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, Round & Round 12. Kisses, People Can Do The Most Amazing Things 13. Poolside, Do You Believe? 14. Air, Mer Du Japon, The Teenagers Remix 15. Beach House, Lover Of Mine 16. Madlib, L.A. 17. Curtis Mayfield, Move On Up 18. Gold Panda, India Lately <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/SEAN.jpg" width="670" height="496" width_o="720" height_o="534" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/SEAN_o.jpg" data-mid="18076834" border="0" align="left"/> All You Need Is Love: 1. Bloc Party, One More Chance 2. Friendly Fires, Paris, Featuring Au Revoir Simone, Aeroplane Remix 3. Grimes, Genesis 4. Burial & Four Tet, Nova 5. Planningtorock, The Breaks 6. SBTRKT, Hide Or Seek 7. John Talabot, Last Land 8. Phèdre, In Decay 9. Azealia Banks, 212, Featuring Lazy Jay 10. Dirty Gold, California Sunrise 11. U.S. Girls, The Island Song 12. Kavinsky, Nightcall, Featuring Lovefoxxx 13. Jai Paul, Jasmin 14. Classix, Into The Valley, Julio Bashmore Remix 15. Major Lazer, Get Free, Featuring Amber Coffman 16. Todd Terje, Inspector Norse 17. Benoit & Sergio, New Ships 18. Chairlift, I Belong In Your Arrns, John Talabot & Pional 6.15 AM Remix Love Isn't Always On Time: 1. Cherry, Chromatics 2. Surahn, Watching The World 3. De La Montagne, Hockey Night 4. Trust, Sulk 5. Mount Kimbie, Made To Stray <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/Bananas-014.jpg" width="603" height="480" width_o="603" height_o="480" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/93875/2010162/Bananas-014_o.jpg" data-mid="26770356" border="0" align="left"/> A Series Of Marvellous Mix-tapes, For Every Occasion. Everybody Loves The Sunshine: 1. Air France, It Feels Good To Be Around You 2. Washed Out, Echoes 3. Blood... http://kingstontrinder.com/Ford-Motors http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/Ford-Motors Thu, 15 Sep 2011 19:55:08 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 2009932 Ford Motors Ford Australia unveiled their new 2011 Territory SUV fleet through a series of eclectic yet engaging, demonstrable real-world challenges. Revealing developments in fuel efficiency & towing capability, Ford further required an unexpected conceptual direction with which to showcase the navigability of their innovative new touch-screen. Utilising Ford engineers & their families throughout, these short documentary TVCs served as a dynamic extension of the brand's Feel The Difference television & print messaging. View Ford's Around The World In One Day TVC Below & watch the other Territory Challenges Here. Client: Ford Motors Australia Agency: JWT Melbourne Creative Director: Richard Muntz Art Director: Scott Heinrich Copywriter: Kingston Trinder Director: Ben Lawrence Production: The Feds Ford Motors Ford Australia unveiled their new 2011 Territory SUV fleet through a series of eclectic yet engaging, demonstrable real-world challenges. Revealing... http://kingstontrinder.com/Trinder-Gash http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/Trinder-Gash Sun, 10 Apr 2011 23:25:14 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 1292171 Trinder/Gash Promotional online-only trailer for Trinder/Gash's forthcoming debut album, directed by Christian Ghezzi. Mother said it was dandy. Trinder/Gash Promotional online-only trailer for Trinder/Gash's forthcoming debut album, directed by Christian Ghezzi. Mother said it was dandy. http://kingstontrinder.com/Tourism-Victoria http://kingstontrinder.com/following/kingstontrinder.com/Tourism-Victoria Sun, 10 Apr 2011 23:21:38 +0000 ~ ADVERTISING & GAZPACHO ~ KINGSTON TRINDER INC. ~ INCREASE THE PEACE ~ 1292162 Tourism Victoria Tourism Victoria recently concluded the developmental phase of its broad-scale, multi-channel campaign, publicising the region nationally & internationally. Offered numerous innovative TVC, experiential, online & print packages, Tourism Victoria sought to further the immense success of It's Easy To Lose Yourself in Melbourne campaign of 2006. Utilising the brand’s existing messaging whilst departing from repetitious campaign extensions, Tourism Victoria received experimental yet accessible work designed to engage an immensely diverse target market. View Tourism Victoria's 2011 Play Melbourne TVC Below. Client: Tourism Victoria Agency: Publicis Melbourne Creative Director: Michelle Walsh Copywriters: Lea Egan, Danny Higgins, Joel Thompson, Franklin Tipton, & Kingston Trinder Art Directors: Rob Beamish, Barbara Humphries, Scott Heinrich & Dave Varney Director: Ben Quinn Production: The Sweet Shop Tourism Victoria Tourism Victoria recently concluded the developmental phase of its broad-scale, multi-channel campaign, publicising the region nationally &...