Silence of the Urbex

December 18, 2020

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.

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

June 08, 2019

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.

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.

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.

Martin J. Sabine // Derelict Soul

April 10, 2018

By Martin J. Sabine

When I look at this ruinous place I feel its pain, the windows look back at me like the eyes of an
empty soul we share the numbness of being left behind. This abandoned house stands skeletal in its urban surroundings its walls no longer keep it safe, no longer repel the rain or snow, stripped of its dignity it succumbs to gravity dying slowly, creaking in the gusting winds.

The smell of decay, mildew and stale dank air thick with dust defines its character, shafts of light
bursting through the gaps in the roof and broken windows illuminate the empty shell, it's like a void, a never ending dark void that consumes everything, so your left feeling nothing. Empty. Its emptiness is all consuming it subsides in the shadows it creeps up and envelopes you in its shrouded mist, you cannot pretend that everything is OK because it’s not, this place like me is a derelict soul.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Imagine if you could play derelict soul. I imagine it would sound a lot like the sniper nest in Full Metal Jacket. Then again, dereliction never leaves you engulfed in shrill sounds that molest your spine. Rather, it often gives you a sense of calm - or the wonder of story sets in as your brain starts to associate what it might have looked like in its prime. Yeah, that's it.