artphotography

Zaar Riisberg // Streets of Aalborg

Zaar Riisberg// My Year in Mobile Shots

It is my firm hope that 23 will see this site thriving. To be perfectly honest, there isn’t anymore shit that can happen. This site is needed - I know that.

Bo Kenneth Sylvest Jakobsen // State of the World Visual Address // Two Blind, One Dead.

Caption on face mask reads: “Protect the weak”.

Caption on face mask reads: “Protect the weak”.

A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.

The 7th one is by Bo Kenneth Sylvest Jakobsen. It is a provocative street art comment on COVID19. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d l ove to hear from you.

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Caption on face mask reads: “I was lonely”.

Caption on face mask reads: “I was lonely”.

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Niels Fabæk // State of the World Visual Address #6 // Silence of the Urbex

A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.

The 6th one is by Niels Fabæk. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you.

This contribution mainly plays out as a gallery. In 2021 I am planning articles on concert photography - Niels will be one of the contributors.

This post is curated by Zaar Riisberg - the artist sent an entire folder of really good shit. We could have posted more. Make sure to catch Niels Fabæk’s concert photography here in the spring of ‘21.

Ron Rubenstein // State of the World Visual Address #4

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A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.

The 4th one is by Ron Rubenstein. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. RR is a bit of an enigmatic character who takes the shots none of us do. He hails from the US and has a tv personality president. Not sure where you go to catch RR these days - last I saw, he was on IG. But I cannot confirm that as I deleted my account. It seems to be that people who lend their artworks to AB, do not post a lot of other places. If you want to see something really lush by RR go here (these are some of my favorite photographies in existence).

The Newslarder #3

The state of the world project starts tomorrow (Friday). They will be stand alone posts for the most. There are tons of other articles that need to go up, but we have one editor here, and I have been lackluster, battling a few things, as I have touched on before. That is nearing an end - which is good, because I am tired of being hampered by unimportant shit.

What’s important in this day and age, I hear you say? Well, art, satire, humour, critique - now more than ever. When was the need for creativity and critique ever bigger?. We need to teach people to question things again. In schools, we should be teaching kids to question things, not be obedient fucking parrots with a credit card.

Just Art has been updated - go take a look, if you don’t believe me. We are also contemplating more on mobile/smartphone photography, but the ‘mobile’ section is not coming back - just like the project starting tomorrow, we want to have a dialog with people, so more avenues for interaction are planned, and no, it will not involve SOME, because fuck SOME.

In the words of Captain Black Adder: wobble, wobble.

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Martin J. Sabine // Boris Johnson "Class" Clown

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Imagine if you will Boris and his "Bullingdon Boys" talking of jolly japes guffawing out loud at their outlandish behaviour their collective arses covered by their privilage, trashed restaurants, hotel rooms and pigs heads notwithstanding is this really the acceptable background and remit for someone to run the country.

The characteristics he displayed at Oxford – entitlement, aggression, amorality, lack of concern for others – are still there, dressed up in a contrived, jovial image. It’s a mask to sanitise some ugly features. They "the boys" treated certain types of people with absolute disdain, and referred to them as ‘plebs’ or ‘grockles’, and the police were always called ‘plod’. Their attitude was that women were there for their entertainment, to do with them whatever they wished. Among them was the former Prime Minister David Cameron and George "Austerity" Osbourne a fine bunch of individuals? Well I leave that up to you to decide.

Johnson's total lack of morality and his penchant for lying is excused by those around him as "Oh it's just Boris being Boris" Really!! Portrayal of him as an irrasicable charmer  running his hand through his mop of hair like a spoiled child is dangerous as this paints him as harmless when he is anything but. Class to him is the get out of jail card, the product of a privileged background, all grace and favor, the cheque book bailout if all else fails. It's hardly the credentials of an upstanding citizen.

His grotesque portrayal of ethnic minorities is another failure of his "class" upbringing, couched in terms of colonialism his references to black people as "piccaninnies with watermelon smiles" and muslim women in burkhas as nothing more than postboxes is an affront to common decency and downright racist. When challenged about this Johnson characterised it like this "I like to think my instincts, in this respect, are as blameless as those of the average person; and the thing is, I am guilty nonetheless. Not of racism, I hope, but of spasms of incorrectitude, soon over, soon regretted". Well that's fucking alright then! Hand slap to forehead…

He leaves behind him a trail of failed relationships and "bastard" children the number of which is unknown as again the cheque book defence came in handy to keep that tally out of the public domain. His failure to accept responsibility for anything is self-evident in the way he distracts, waffles and bluster's through the present crisis of the pandemic, plausible deniability his weapon of choice. His animated delusional obsession of leaving the EU without a deal is on display everyday, his use of latin phrases used as a warrior would use a shield, to deflect from his inadequacy, his continued use of language which is often a mixture of unexpected metaphors or turns of phrase, hyperbole, and nostalgia, very often with a particularly British twist such as piffle, mugwump and nincompoop.

All the character traits listed here are the sum of the parts of a public facade to absolve Boris Johnson of the reality that he is in fact of a lesser intelligence than he and his entourage would have us believe, personally I blame his parents, siblings and educators who have allowed him to become the person he is today a self obsessed misogynist, a racist and narcissist, a fucking good slap early on in life would have knocked the "braghard" out of him and sending him through a normal educational system would have stood him in better stead than the cloak of privilege which hangs loose upon his rounded shoulders.

So when Boris and his "Classmates" drive us over the Brexit cliff edge all those who voted for him and his cronies will have those immortal words ringing in their collective ears "Well it's just Boris being Boris".....

© M.J. Sabine 2020



Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // I am Special pt 1: Bland on the Run

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I did some shots for a band my friend was playing in. Little did I know, that my friend was being fucked over by these twats. My friend is the most gifted guitarist I have ever met - a truly brilliant maverick musician. The band was doing old punk songs - in my opinion, something vastly below the skillset of my friend, but not the rest of the guys in the band - whom I really liked. Turned out they were doucebags. Small men as it were. I have met my share of them, trying to stab me in the back, sully my name in front of others, or just ganging up on you in a really vile manner. Why do the rest of us have to contend with other people’s insecurities?

Most shots were painstakingly done, initially run through Lightroom, Camera Raw, Photoshop and carefully finished with just the right offset - EACH AND EVERY SHOT. On top of this, I payed my own way at a one of their concerts and gave them the shots. Top dollar work, and the best pictures the band had - and they are still using them. It is good work, even though, it was pro bono or payed very little. Why? Because I work passionately for people I like and very professionally for people that pay. I value my personal integrity - after all, I have to live with myself.

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So once again, people of mediocre talent are allowed to stifle those of real talent. This is a problem for this world - the envy of the truly bland. ‘I am special’ the individual seems to cry out. It always leaves me with a ‘prove it’ echoing through my brain. Instead, most will scale the body of others, until they reach the shoulders and then stand on them.

It is the same behaviour that made me hide, curtail my output or indeed control it a lot more. I have hated being an inspiration for others, and I have felt exasperated at times, when people more or less said ‘so inspirational, keep it coming’. Fuck you. I would rather not have an output than inspire people that never go out of the box themselves. The excitement for me is creation, exceeding boundaries - I want to look behind the veil, I want to be on the path to the palace of wisdom.

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I do not know what path everyday farts like the ones that fucked over my friend are on. All I know is, that when the people of talent have had enough, everyone else is left up shit creek without a paddle but a ton of followers, either payed for or collected under false pretences. I am not even talking about ‘influencers’ - we all know they are a bunch of cock suckers - no, I am talking about people and artists of talent that chose to find a template for success, rather than being true to themselves and let the subconscious grab their aim and steer them in.

With this, I open the floor to others - past and present contributors or indeed readers - to enter this theme ‘I am Special’ - would you like to write part II or III? I have more instalments myself, but I do so love the yumminess of concerted and collaborated efforts.

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // The Plastic Flower

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Plastic flowers. What's left unsaid lingers. Untold memories of restraint and ambiguity with a dash of stupidity. The usual suspect everyone knows is never guilty. The character you toss aside. The man you all like, but do not understand. The divider, yet the leader you congregate around. The loser you bar from accepting his defeat. The lover of light and the bringer of darkness, the voice of the silent, the anger of the vocal - the calm AND the storm. It is time to rise again.

(text first published on FB)

Lasse Fischer // The People of Plenty

There is enough, there is more than enough, actually there is plenty of it - indeed there is too much. We shift our limbs as if they were itching. The small stretch between us and it is is the greatest source of pain we have ever known. The cursed e…

There is enough, there is more than enough, actually there is plenty of it - indeed there is too much. We shift our limbs as if they were itching. The small stretch between us and it is is the greatest source of pain we have ever known. The cursed earth between us and it is soon to be swallowed up by our heels. We have longed for too long, and now it is there, a mount of plenty sitting on the horizon. The moans start rising from the group, we start eyeing each other. Each swollen calf and thigh is now weighed and analysed, and some start licking their lips, as they realize that they belong in the front of the group. A small moment of breathless silence. Then we start running towards it; mouths foaming and feet breaking against the lumpy ground. Our faces contract in agony, but somehow we keep going. Skin tears open and nails are torn off. We don't stop. The mere thought of what awaits us jolts our muscles and joints and keeps us going.

We arrive; pushing and kicking each other.

A cheek is torn off and the fleshy lump flails in between the conqueror’s teeth. The blood from the gash in his opponents face slathers his body and mixes with his sweat making him a pink, reddish spectacle amidst the sea of brown and white flesh.

We dive in, head first, feet first, whatever is the nearest it doesn't matter. Many of the misfortunates end up at the bottom of the meaty pile. They do not scream in agony though, they raise their voices in rejoice for being so near, so in touch with the plenty, even when the weight reaches such a tremendous amount, that their innards are forced outwards, do they scream in pleasure. The ones on top are crawling over the masses of bodies, moving and still, and continue further into the living landscape.

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The beginning of the pileup has started to take color. A mixture of beige and red has stained the naked bodies as they slip and slide among each other, while piece of man and woman gets squished between their toes.

Some of those who have found a spot of their own defend it relentlessly, aggressively attacking anyone, who dares near their share; piling cadavers around their newly founded camp.

Others smear themselves with the lot of it and let the surrounding mouths lick it off from every surface of their bodies, returning the favor later on, making them easily recognizable, as the colors of beige and red are scarce on their huge canvases, with the pale skin standing out in striking contrast. Otherwise it is only the shine from grinding teeth that can be distinguished in the homogeneous crowd. And they smile. Their grins seem unnatural and painfully forced; stretching the skin to the absolute limit; not blinking, as they would then miss out on looking at it.

We are all on all fours, all screaming, all smiling.

We are being filled with it, surrounded by it, and consumed by it, as we ourselves consume it

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // I Hate Being an Empath

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I have just shot a confirmation after spending an evening and morning with some adorable kids. I jump on a bus, and after a few stops a group of young people enter. A smell of beer and old cigarettes accompany them, and one guy in particular catches my attention. He sits across from me. He is jittery and not a day past 25 years of age. An infinite sadness starts to build inside me mixed with the sense that I have seen this kid before. They are all in somewhat good spirits, but my eyes still get wet. I see him whip out a small bottle of ‘Hot n’ Sweet’ (sweet, cheap liquor), and he knocks it back one time. I want to scream. I want to cry - I want to take everything he is fighting and put it on me. I am 43 - so fuck me. This kid, and I just know this, will not see 40 - maybe not even 30. My mind screams at him in silence: ‘who abandoned you’? ‘What asshole father left you to drift by yourself’?

They reach their stop, which, of course, is Mølleparken. Lots of people in Aarhus go there, however, you can be sure the drunks and addicts are out as well in the park - every damn day during the summer. As they leave I see his bag is full of ‘Hus Forbi’ - a paper produced by the homeless in Denmark. That is how I know him - he camps out selling them at the place where I used to shop on Vesterbro Torv. I get another flash of his face, and it hits me. I saw him getting harassed by a ‘normal’ woman in the inner city one time. It was classic - she told him to get a job, and he was trying to tell her that it was not that easy, that there were no jobs, and certainly not any for him. He had been begging which pisses people of. And now I know why I remember him so vividly. That day, I walked right up to him, past the woman and pressed a 100kr bill in his hand - he looked at me in total disbelief, I turned, flipped off the woman, gave her a sarcastic smile, and went on my merry way.

But it stings that it has to be this way. It tears at my being and it violates what we are about. We have no dignity if we let our own suffer. How can we fight for a place in the cosmos, when we do not even have the heart to fight for our own - much less animals, nature or the planet.

I wish I did not care. I wish I could care less. I wish, I wish, I wish. I will often question if it is just pretentiousness and subsequently second guess my own apparatus and heart. I will accuse myself of being a manipulative asshole that only feels this way, because it makes me feel righteous, special or good about myself. But I know it is not true. I am an empath and I hate every second of it. It does not make me feel good. A recently acquired friend shoved it in my face ‘oh, you’re an empath, that’s no fun, I mean, it’s lovely, but it’s horrible’. She was spot on. She often is. Unfortunately for her, it is a case of taking one to know one.

Some of us have big hearts. But it may come as a surprise to many of you, that it is a horrible burden. A bird hit the windshield at my parents, and I could not rest before I knew it was ok (80% of small birds die either way). I was passing the corridor in the house, what turns out to be a small moth flies toward me, and in the dark I instinctively swat it softly. When I get the lights on, the small fella is running in circles on the floor. That absolutely destroys me. You see? It is a fucked up way to live.