Graham O'Neill // Sense of Place

It’s fairly straightforward.... despite coming to admire some street photos that are stylish or the (generally Japanese) girls are cute, by and large I find them tedious, intrusive, by degree outrageous and most leave me feeling’so what’. “Ohhh you got up really close”.... so what... “ohhh you’ve got a reaction there” ... damn right, I hope you had your Fuji thrown under a bus... if there’s a story or the processing is cool , I just about get it but if it simply implies the photographer has a “condition” to address, I’m not with them.

- Graham O'Neill

EDITOR'S NOTE

We took the liberty of quoting Graham. It is a bigger issue than most of us will admit - capturing photons - it IS close to capturing life itself. Martin Sabine and Zaar Riisberg already touched on it. A lot of us feel like invading people's privacy, even when depicting street photography in a political sense. Then again, some people want to participate - often, when you are not in the mood. So, like sex, should photography be consensual? Not at all. What you do not know, does not hurt you. However, I having a hard time with doing shots depicting people in unflattering positions, or indeed fat people sleeping on the subway, is normal. Your empathy ensures that you do not like making people uncomfortable. It is not about having guts. No. It is about decency and the gut feeling - is this okay? It is about sense of place.

Kaz Narumi // Window

This train is bound for "my old past"

The interior of the train was even more bitterly chill than the snow-covered plains without.

I soothed almost into a dreaming slumber by the numbing narcotic of the cold.

I was dreaming of my old glad days when I had chased my friend through the flowering

grasses of the summer meadows and of my late mother wiped away my tears and helped me understand.

I'm so tired.

My friends, my mother, I'm looking forward to seeing you....soon...

EDITOR'S NOTE

Finally, we present another exciting artist/photographer. Kaz is known to have a huge heart for others, always trying to support or inspire others. Sometimes via his own work, but also by sharing that of others he himself finds interesting or giving.

Lasse Fischer // Shades of Armenian Grey // Part III

Day two
They had trapped us in a room with soft zigzag carpets and a ceiling impossible far away from the floor. They made us stand in a circle - Wait; there was something before the carpets and circles. Outside the snow made its way from the heavens down onto the mountainside, layering the black rock with a soft white powder. Being surrounded by walls surrounded by mountains made a nice frame for the hangovers I had to endure.

I woke up dizzy and crawled down the polished marble steps, down to the pool were an elderly Armenian gentleman opened the locked door leading into the pool area despite him not understanding a word I was saying. We shook hands and nodded. The pool was empty, and after gasping my way through a few lanes of angst provoking lack of oxygen I laid on my back floating in the water, staring at the ceiling. My brain gently bobbing up and down within its cranial juice, following the rhythm of the blue liquid in the pool, as it recovered from the pomegranate marinade. Something loosened up inside of me and my body rose an inch in the water. Was one of the components of freedom distance? The water carried me and my thought to the edge of the pool. I stayed there floating long after I had a shower, put on my clothes, and went to eat breakfast. The sensation of hovering above ground, using my body in different physics, followed me like a shadow. I tried washing it away in the shower, but to no avail, it stayed attached to my feet. On my way to my room a glittering luggage transporter drove me outside the hotel doors, where I was confronted with the mountains. It seemed like they had bent the land around them to their will, and I understood why the soil and the trees bowed their heads and backed out of the way for these juggernauts of geography. They had a power over their surroundings, an unspoken agreement with the world that they persevered, watching over the earth, as the rest of reality rose and fell. In the depths of my situation, the wet and shiny eyes of the day after drinking, I too could sense the immense back catalogue of thoughts that had been projected onto their silent and stoic bodies, as I bent my neck, searching for the end of the massive wall of rock. My stomach grumbled. I had neglected to eat all morning, and to see to it that my vessel would carry me through a day of the never ending discipline of team building.

Returning to the subject of carpets. They made us stand in a circle. The shoes of the participants were all pointed to the middle of the zigzag carpet. A young smartly dressed guy talked about an exercise in teambuilding. I had always hated the idea of networking and being social, making contacts, because the words left somewhat of a metallic taste in my mouth. Maybe I should stop biting down so hard when they emerged. My eyes followed instead the lines on the floor, and I fell in to the light brown crevices between the black and blue stripes. When I came back up I was making a tower out of spaghetti, tape, and a magenta colored string. We skewered a marshmallow on top of the construction and came third in the competition. I sighed, and yesterday’s vapors filled the conference room. We applauded ourselves. A room filled with masturbatory youth workers. I jerked along with the others. Reflective store fronts and structured beams started rising from the zigzag carpet. They had followed me into this hotel in the middle of nowhere. They manifested themselves in the room between the participants. I took a step back as one sprang up from beneath my feet. I felt myself growing irritated. There was apparently no complete escape as long as people sought it out, this feeling of things being hollowed out. A string tugged at my wallet.

Day three
Cream gave me shit for my writing. She thought it could be funnier. It was fun for me though. The situation, the sweaty hands, the smell of feet, the insecure glances and the whole setup was somewhat ridicules. Hold that thought a second; we have to do an energizer game. After being turned into a chicken, a penguin, a human, and lastly a wise human I returned to the notion of
being more fun.

Martin Sabine // What Am I?

By Martin J. Sabine

They bundled him through the door separating him, he was being sorted out, they'd put the dirt
on him rinsed him of everything, this was way past cool he was near to boiling point, how could
this have happened? Round and round he went until he was in a right lather and then they
rinsed him some more, it was like some vicious cycle a never ending beat of a drum, he was in
a spin with no way out and then he tumbled they'd taken him to the cleaners, then hung him out
to dry.

Epilogue :
He'd been part of the programme, they'd ironed out the creases bent and folded him into shape,
it was easy he'd been labelled from the start and here he was, one of many on the outside, top
of the pile a fresh start ahead of him and waiting to be collected. He'd had his collar felt that's
for sure, would he stay clean....Well we’ll have to wait and see.

© M.J.Sabine 2018

EDITOR'S NOTE

A recent birthday boy and curry lover, Martin has us guessing again, the dirty boy...

Zaar Riisberg // Rubber & Glue

I have seen the behaviour before. The odd idea, that someone think they can manipulate words that are in plain view - sometimes to save face, sometimes to try and sway people, sometimes just because of basic insecurity - and always fall flat on their faces, because what they create, is a warped reality at best. They will defend the indefensible, they will act defiantly and they will come across as arrogant. What they really are, is hurt.

It presents itself as a snowball effect that will inevitably roll over friends and confidants. It will play itself out to such an extent, that you will invariably start to doubt if you ever knew this person, or if they have ever been straight with you. It is hard not to react, and your first instinct is to get angry and counter. But the more you look at it, it becomes apparent that this is not a battle you will want to engage in, because the basic premise for it is sheer madness.

The first sign is passive aggressiveness. Ire, vitriol, poison and snide remarks, disguised as engaging in the subject, but all the time pushing one agenda: havoc. If it is online the use of smileys to cover up the anger is especially telling. Another trait is that they will often talk things, projects, their politics or art up, when everyone else can see, that the correlation with actual reality, is strained if not outright broken. Most people are just too polite to tell the person or persons in question.

This site is about art, photography, literature, philosophy and critique. It is about being real - which is a tall order in this world. In science, we have the peer review. Paired with scientific method, it is, perhaps one of the finest ideas humanity ever had. Imagine introducing that in art or photography. It would never work. Never mind, not being able to take critique, but being decent to peers seems to be a problem too. In latter years, this phenom seems to have enlisted a Trump-esque way of being fact-resistant. I am rarely shocked, if ever. But I do get taken aback in extreme cases. But my anger subsided some time ago. Sadness fills my heart instead in these cases.

We have a duty, actually, to shut behavior like that down, as it pollutes the air for everyone. But way too often, we do what I did. We give people the benefit of the doubt in the few rare cases where we should not. We sometimes pay an outrageous price for that. Character assassination is an ugly thing, but thankfully, it only works if you can make your shit stick, and if you have sympathisers and supporters that will drive your twisted agenda. Trump does - you do not.

So treat humans the way you want to be treated, if they reward such honesty with lies and deceit - maybe even attempt to drag you through the mud? Then find the strength to rise above it, no matter how bad you want revenge, no matter how utterly you want to rip into the culprit, no matter how unfairly you have been treated, no matter how insanely you think others have acted. I know it is hard, but...

...do not stoop.

Lasse Fischer // Shades of Armenian Grey // Part II

Day one
As the metal giant ascended from the heavens I looked out upon the land from a small hole, and witnessed how the darkness and the light had swallowed the houses and the people, and I knew this was where the struggle was, this was where life unfolded itself. The rubber tires touched down on the asphalt runway, shaking the cabin, and I remembered how the wing of the plane had blinked towards the pale moon in the skies above Europe. Now Armenia embraced me with rows of color.

Polished marble floors filled the white open space with the sound of scuffling, and I took out a piece of gum from my jacket. Eager taxi drivers waved at us beckoned us with opened doors and promises of cheap fares.

The weather was cool, the kebab shop was open at 5 in the morning and so we stumbled in with our trolleys, and backpacks, with greasy hair and faces. They pumped out obscure club music, songs that had been thrown into an electric cement mixer and that now poured down upon us from the worn down square-holed ceiling. I had a bite of some doughy scrotum food filled with soup. You could see the touch of iron curtain everywhere even in the faint light of the early morning. It had stained the buildings on the streets, the cars, and had lodged itself behind the eyes of the drowsy workers serving us tea as their heads were being blasted from a bass that had confused its mission and drowned out the depth of the beat with rattling innards. The first day was beginning, and Ed Sheeran was begging me to follow his lead from the black box attached to the wall. We were looking at maps and chatting casually as we fought through the feeling of 13 hours of traveling. I felt a sense of belonging, isolated from the people in Denmark in these strange settings. I leaned in over the table, resting on my elbows and scratching my hair.

The familiar didn’t have the same taste anymore. In the last couple of years the textures of the same old same old had changed. I could see the mesh rearrange beneath my hand as I placed it on my parents couch. We arrived at the youth organization in the middle of Yerevan. Here we could store our luggage while waiting for it to be evening, and to be transported to our hotel.
I took a walk in the city Yerevan were giant holes had formed in the ground. 30 meters deep workplaces were filled with miniature people and toy machines that ate away of the different sediments, putting it in trucks and hurrying it off to somewhere, were it would be used as a sacrifice to the new god of the growing urban environment. Old and new clashed as soviet buildings stood in the shadow of new shiny capitalist constructions. It seemed like growth had a place here, you could see the need for it in every worn down corner. The need had turned itself into a grainy filter covering the buses and the people. Dust clouds rose from the pit. I stepped onto the taxi bus with the rest of my co travelers, sat down and leaned my head against some drapes. In Denmark every line is drawn with a ruler created for the sole purpose of assisting that line to reach its destination without any deviations. Old furniture in an alleyway. I made a note on how impossible a scene like that was in a place where you didn’t exist if you didn’t hold on to a small yellow card connecting you to the kilometers of strings that runs from the core of the metal dome and to its citizens. I got drunk in a hotel room on pomegranate wine and talked for hours on end with Zane, whom I referred to as Cream, about love and our insecurities. She reminded me of myself. I could feel time gnawing at my 26 years old skeleton as the young girl spread out her hopes and dreams in front of us and invited me to dine on them. I recognized some of the dishes. The day ended when my head hit a king size bed as a guy from Belarus snored at me from the floor.

Ron Rubenstein // Dust & Grime are Fuckin' Part of Life

Ron: 'The elements of this perspective were always there but I could only put them together in a specific frame of mind'

Zaar Riiberg: 'Can I put a spin on it? Also...dude, clean your sensor' :D

Ron: 'I’m tired of cleaning the sensor and think dust and grime are fucking part of life'

EDITOR'S NOTE

Ron gave permission to share a little from our mail talk. I suspect you can see why. Ron likes dogs, open spaces and Americana. When he is not shooting he is shooting.

Martin Sabine // Strange Encounters

I’m interested in how some bodies are “in an instant” judged as suspicious, or dangerous, as
bodies to be feared, just because we can’t explain something it doesn't follow that we should be
afraid, some judgments in some circumstances can also have lethal consequences. There can
be nothing more dangerous to a body than the social agreement that that body is dangerous.
Look at today's society a real and present paranoia prevails. There’s a real suspicious guy. This
guy looks like he’s up to no good, he’s on drugs or something. This is further compounded by
racial profiling, he looks black. he’s wearing a dark hoodie, now he’s coming toward me. He’s
got his hands in his pockets, he’s a black male. Note the viscous slide: suspicious, up to no good, coming at me, looking black, a dark hoodie, wearing black, being black. The last statement makes an explicit racial overtone as to what we are all seeing right from the very beginning. We are seeing a Black man is already implied in the first description “a real suspicious guy.” Let me repeat: there can be nothing more dangerous to a body than the social agreement that that body is dangerous.

Are we as a society right to feel fear, because a stranger is a dark shadowy figure. I use the word “dark” deliberately here: it is a word that cannot be untangled from a racialised history. To use this word as if it can be disentangled from that history is to be entangled by that history. The racialisation of the stranger is not immediately apparent—it is disguised, we might say by the strict anonymity of the stranger, the one who after all, we are told from childhood, could be anyone. We witness from this example how this “could be anyone” is pointed: the stranger as a figure, points to some bodies more than others. This “could be anyone” thus only appears as an open possibility, stretching out into a horizon, in which the stranger reappears as the one who is always lurking in the shadows. Note; most films use this premise as a precursor to murderous intent. Note also that the perception of others is also an impression of others: to be made into a
stranger is to be blurred. I have since described racism as a blunt instrument, which is another
way of making the same argument. Stop and search, the so called “Suss law” for example, is a
methodology that makes this bluntness into a point: Stop! You are light brown with dark
features, Asian! Your carrying a rucksack You could be Muslim! You could be a terrorist! The
blurrier the figure of the stranger the more bodies can be caught by it. So long as a society we
recognise such injustices exist then we can become clearer when we legislate against it, and as
a consequence stop racial profiling and the demonisation of whole cultures from becoming the
norm.

© M.J. Sabine 2018.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Perhaps a small coincidence, or perhaps great minds think alike. But neither Zaar Riisberg nor Sabine had read each other's contributions. Not quite same theme - still, focus is the same. They both live in countries built on immigration and now watch in horror, as the rhetoric has taken a turn they had never expected. See Zaar Riisberg's offering on the same theme here.

Zaar Riisberg // From a Distance

Is it an ethnic Danish woman wearing a scarf because of the harrowing weather we have been having, or is it a Muslim woman? My answer, and it is a rather short one, is, who gives a FUCK? But in the country I live in, these matters matter. We have less than 8% Muslims here, they cost a fraction of the total BNP and scores of them believe in Allah, the way a lot of Christians believe in God here - certain occasions if they are the somewhat traditional sort, or as a lot of Muslims I know, they observe a kind of pantheistic view. God is nature, god is love. I can swing with that.

But it is the covering of the face, that seems to irk people. Which prompted our politicians to forbid wearing masks. Crime rates go through the roof during Halloween, one is lead to understand. Or it could just be a bad case of xenophobia. So they pass a bill, and the whole country is talking about it. We have less than 500 people that wear a burqa - 'out of proportions' does not even begin to cover how stupid and counter productive legislation like that is. Law should operate in consequences for certain behaviour, not ban this and that. You wear a mask, you cannot go to the grocery store, leave the country or anything really. So why a ban? Because the story being told by everyone, is that Muslims are the greatest threat to our future at all. Not the environment, not super volcanos, not pollution, not war, not meteors, not a threatening ice age, not our lust for conflict and guns. Muslims.

Seriously?

EDITOR'S NOTE

Martin Sabine touches on similar issues in his latest here

Lasse Fischer // Shades of Armenian Grey // Part I

Airport
Being in an airport is one of the most curios things one can experience. It’s a small microcosm of worlds squeezed into a relatively tiny space. It is like walking through the tensed up, feverish ball of society screaming at you to notice it, throwing every last thing way to make you stop, take your wallet out, and appreciate its culture one last time before your feet leave the legal, administrative and economic space from wherein it governs over you.

I looked at a Copenhagen magnet at a gift shop displaying the little mermaid statue. I could smell the fresh perspiration coming from the badly painted knickknack. I had agreed on going on a trip for a seminar, which was being held in Armenia. I didn’t belong to any organization, nor had I thought much about the subject; I have just never been able to turn down an offer to experience something new. Waiting for a stranger I grabbed a beer and ate some nuts. A certain kind of feeling was always present in places like this; a place of arrival and departures. It had become a part of the food stands and the toilets, and the lounges were you sat around and waited, where you drank a beer at 5.30 in the morning. I could sense the restlessness buried underneath the structure, it made my legs jitter.

It presented itself as a small hum going through the hallways, following the people wherever they went. It sat next to me as I wrote on my computer. Ever sounding, never stopping to take a breath. People grouped up in front of the screens telling them about departure and boarding. Resting their hands on the trolley handle they still lingered upon the idea of stability, of certainty, as if they weren’t going to be thousands of meters above ground in a matter of hours. They all came here to let go of the conventional physics, and still they guarded their luggage as if it was a failsafe, as if they could be saved somehow. I looked down between my knees from atop the bar stool at my trolley which was tucked safely between my legs. I ordered another beer.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Lasse is literally going places. Clever sod. Diamond geezer. This series is not in two parts, nor three, but even more. Bringing it back to the age of Dennis Stock, where photography and text were about the reportage. Not photo sharing.

Martin Sabine // If the Cap Fits

SOLITUDE

By Martin Sabine
Solitude should not be confused with loneliness or social isolation it is a completely different
behaviour.

Loneliness is marked by a sense of isolation, solitude on the other hand, is a state of being
alone without being lonely and can lead to self-awareness. Solitude some believe is a solitary
convention not necessarily so, for example a group of Franciscan Monks on a sabbatical share
a serene solitude in a peaceful, tranquil and silent environment, together yet at the same time
alone.

That said, there is an important distinction to be established right from the start. There is a world
of difference between solitude and loneliness, though the two terms are often interchanged.
Solitude is the state of being alone without being lonely. It is a positive and constructive state of
engagement with oneself. Solitude is a time that can be used for reflection, inner soul searching
or enjoyment of some kind. Deep reading requires solitude, thinking and creativity usually do too
as does experiencing the beauty of nature. Who could not enjoy the serene solitude of a walk in
a forest with its earthy smells and diffused light.

Solitude suggests peacefulness stemming from a state of inner richness. It is a means of
enjoying the quiet and whatever it brings that is satisfying and from which we draw sustenance.
It is something we cultivate. Solitude is refreshing; an opportunity to renew ourselves. In other
words, it replenishes us, it gives us a chance to regain perspective. It renews us for the
challenges of life.

© M.J.Sabine 2018

EDITOR'S NOTE

Let it never be said that shrooms cannot widen your perception. The thing here seems to be MS exploring semantics with images, using it to flesh out the subtle differences between one state or the other. The soft touch often means something else when MS uses it.

Xenia Chantzi // Xen Zen

Xenia Chantzi // Xen Zen

Text by Zaar Riisberg

The Stoics were philosophers of Greece and somewhat Rome/Italy. In some ways they are reminiscent of the Cynics of Athens, like Diogenes and Anthisthenes, but different. It is the calm, the stoic, the minimalist, the sense making of the geometry that puts us at ease. Xenia provides a place to breathe for others, something that purveys her personality as well. If the silence breaks and the waves crash instead of a calm sea, she will stand in place. She has been exploring new avenues of her talent, but this is vintage Xen. She has an incredible knack for the dreamy seascape and the greyscaled minimalism that goes along with it.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Xenia is from Greece and while having mostly worked in mono, she now dabbles in some color, if you check her IG. Like Martin Sabine one of the things you first notice when you see a few frames of her work, is a sense of light, especially when it comes to highlights and dark tones - and, indeed, managing them.

Martin Sabine // Neighbourhood Watch

Is this Voyeurism? – At first glance the image looks voyeuristic but be careful of the “Venus Eye Trap” the original shot is of a naked woman in a yoga pose a perfectly acceptable portrayal of health and wellbeing. However add the shadow of a window frame and the image takes on a completely different set of values, we are them lured into the realm of
voyeuristic behaviour which for some in society is a taboo.

How is that an image can switch between two standards and values by digital manipulation,
it is a condition that is being debated daily within the media can we really rely on what we
visually see, after all a photograph is usually looked at but seldom looked in to. “Peeping” at
this sensual image is a delight of decadent art; the watcher who records the supposed crime
(both the artist and consumer of the art) is constructed as being marginal, powerless to act
and so exculpated from any action, a passive subject within a complex pleasure.
Please remember though this particular image was taken with the full knowledge and
permission of the subject, does that exonerate the viewer from having an emotional
attachment or detachment from the image or in fact of feeling uncomfortable? probably
not.

What we have to remember is that all photography by definition is voyeuristic for example a
“street” photograph of people in public places generally taken without permission could be
deemed to be voyeurism, I think its best summed up by a quote from Helmut Newton who
said; “Any photographer who says he’s not a voyeur is either stupid or a liar”…….

© M.J.Sabine 2018

EDITOR'S NOTE

It is usually an extreme attention to detail that floors you with Martin Sabine. But often, it is also a thought provoking tour de force to witness his creations. It demands you look at it for longer than the average 5-15 seconds...if that.

What's up with mobile photography?

Hm?

I have never really used my phone for photography until a few months ago. It is getting increasingly interesting because of the cameras the phones are fitted with now. I am on an iPhone 7+ and I am not a very good mobile photographer - but I like experimenting. So what can it do?

I took this while waiting for my dad to unlock the fucking car door...

Selfies - the obvious use

I do not like selfies, so mine has always been a 'mock' approach, or an artistic approach - laced with self irony. Or indeed to make some sort of statement. People look stupid on selfies, so might as well take it to the extreme. On the move photography should be inspiring or spontaneous art. Mostly, people use the selfie for vanity - and communication - what they are indeed communicating, is anyone's guess.

A scene

Sometimes you come across some interesting motifs in the city scape, and most times, it is easier just flipping out the phone, and snapping that fucker. Which is where 'sharing' makes sense. It is fun - and it is also fun seeing other people's finds and getting some laughs on your own. I love 'finds'. The problem is, as perfect as these things are for sharing with others online, Art unfortunately is not.

I always like to leave our readers with a healthy afterthought

Accidental Art

Although...sometimes you come across something random. It could be a pattern that no one else has spotted. The nooks and crannies of larger cities are a goldmine for this. But anywhere is good, really - it's all about your attention to detail, your mentality and how curious you are.

Ron Rubenstein // Ron On or Roll On

Text by Zaar Riisberg

I tend to think about Ron's stuff like I do Werner Herzog films - it's never boring. So when I get a mail from him that says 'for AB', and I discover it's a video clip. Shit, I don't know - do I open this? I did. I suspect this falls in the category of 'now art'. Some will go what the fuck, but others will get it. I get it. I cannot explain it, but I get it. And so, I laughed and shook my head, in fact, I nearly pissed myself, because this is gold.

In a sense this is life and what it is all about represented in less than 5 secs. I know one thing that makes an artist. a gift for the unsaid - just leave it hanging. Like Ron just did. Leaving people hanging is normally rude. Here, not so much.

Lasse Fischer // Eventually

By Lasse Fischer

Eventually is a promise and a curse. It can make your heart grow ten sizes in a single second, but it can also linger upon you making your steps shifty and noisy. Sitting here in the middle of the night thinking, eventually, is now a ritual of sorts. It's like being in a vacuum, thoughts racing and everything else shut out. I make myself promises all the time. I let the best of me take over and think about how I will tighten the screws in my chairs, so that they won't collapse under my father's growing weight, because eventually they will. Every day I find the burden of things making my steps shifty again. I do remember moving quietly with a heart too big for my chest, although now it seems like those days never existed in the first place.

The thing about eventually is that you simply run dry. I have become so noisy that people can hear me coming from far away. I have found out that people don't like the noise and tend to avoid me instead.
I find it necessary to get accustomed to a routine, to make time do as it does, otherwise it stretches for miles in front of you expecting you to interact and for a guy with shifty feet and a huge luggage the road could feel as was it never ending. I'm hoping now that I eventually will get used to this numbing sensation in my chest.

Oh, there we go.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Lasse is different. A good different - multi talented, and in tune with the world. He is hard to phaze, has some quirk and innovation in his arsenal. And the kid can write. Recently, he picked up a camera as well. Like Ron Rubenstein, he seems to be a fan of the derelict and abandoned. And so, he opens just that category on our relaunch of AB.

Zaar Riisberg // The Galactic Branch // 2015

By Zaar Riisberg

The worst feeling in the world, is being invisible. Especially, to transparent people. That is, being invisible to transparent people. Sort of pisses you off. Non substance ignoring substance, or being wary of it. Surface shying away from reality, thus becoming hyper reality. The lie all humans live. A bubble that denies the hazards of a wild and crazy cosmos. insistent, nay, adamant that it is the only piece of intelligent fruit, hanging from the galactic branch.

Vanity - everyone's favorite sin

By Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm)

Zaarchasm, hot and steamy, just out of the shower. Self improvement is masturbation, Tyler said. What if masturbation was self improvement? Is it? Self love, perhaps. Alleviation, certainly. It is, along with porn, such a peace keeper in this world, yet, never gets any credit. I have no idea what I am talking about. I am headless, so I must be talking out my arse.

The Gloryhole Deception

by Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm)

We would all like for the image to speak for itself. Sometimes, it depends on what kind of mind you have and where it is. Art should be provocative - but it cannot just be that, you need aesthetics, and while some of it may come out in an analysis of the work, there should always be an aloof mystique that you cannot explain. Art makes us realise things we cannot realise through math or physics. You know what I am talking about - that sense you get sometimes, where you are so close to understanding something profound. It is not your brain fucking with you. It is a flash of intangible insight. The thing is, as valuable as something like that is, you will always be at a loss to explain it to others - they have to feel it for themselves.

So. Whether you suck the right or the left one, is entirely up to you. I am just the artist.

Ron Rubenstein // The Pacific

Text: Zaar Riisberg

It's like he shoots from a forgotten era, a likeable, sometimes rural and gritty US I personally would like to visit. The best things, are things you cannot explain why you dig. Half the time I can not pinpoint what it is - I feel thrown back to the era of Dennis Stock. Something classic or other - Ron makes seemingly dead things into live poetry. A torn inner curtain and a certain light, bam, that's a Rubenstein. I see a lot of my peers going for the same style shots, and never moving out of their comfort zone - some of them hugely talented visually, but they keep delivering variations of the same aesthetic. Ron has always been a barrage, but over the years, the frequency of stellar work has increased - and Ron is, for me, at least, one of the best. And he has the name - he already has the fucking name...

The Shot itself

Some would probably thumb over this, others would scratch their head and wonder what the fuck I am on about. They have no sense of mood. This shot has - from the crooked mid line, to the two worlds apart, to the magnificent geometry playing itself out in the entirety of the shot, with more shades of grey, than a mere fifty. Crafty. But the mood? A long lost James Dean outtake with him not in frame, perhaps? Something lingers, you get the sense, that something invisible or out of frame, is unable, or does not want to leave. And maybe, that is a good thing. Moving on, is always preferable, but not to soon.