#9 £8

glossy posse
 super-natural sharp

cover photo: Sabine Pigalle · styling: Christophe Martinez · photo assistant: Clement Guillaume
hair: Maxime Massé @ Calliste · make-up: Huê-Lan Van Duc · models: Kari-Anne @ Next + Diana @
Marylin · left to right · cape by Stella Cadente · top by Chanel · flowers by Anna Sui · top by Stella
Cadente · gold lace from Le Bon Marché
 Fable Sunya by Hari Kunzru p.8
Goliath by Matthew Dunster p.84
The Eskimo Room by John H. Dunning + Christian de Sousa p.110

Fashion Sabine Pigalle p.16

Lee Powers p.76
Felix Lammers p.102
Simon Leigh + Bump p.128
Arnaud Bani p.136
La Fille Penchée by Thierry Van Biesen p.174
Gyslain Yarhi p.184
Charlie by Thomas Brun p.190
Cleo Sullivan p.250
Masoud p.282

Art Marie O'[email protected] p.24

Love Story by www.cacaodesign.com p.36
The Vanishing by Emmanuelle Antille p.144
Llama Project by Jean-Pierre Khazem p.198 sweet
David Thorpe p.222
Dan Hays p.228
Running Project by Per Hüttner + Claire Canning p.240

Conversation They Call Me Olga on the Net by Filippo Bianchi p.52

The King of Lospalos and I by Zeina B Ghandour p.150
The Lost War by Malu Halasa p.208
Talking in the Age of Intelligent Machines by Theodore Zeldin p.258

Photography Irish Races by Bruce Gilden p.64

Looking at Russia by Lise Sarfati + Olga Medvedkova p.88
Martin Parr p.118
Audio Portraits by Stephen Gill p.162
Fear of Flying by Peter Benson p.232

Competition Architecture Award p.290

Issue #9 · April

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 "‘void’, ‘nothingness’, a symbol of brahman and nirvanam … the unifying point of indifference and the
matrix of the All and the None"

Very soon my corpse will be ashes, the substance of my heart, my hands, my eyes
and brain swept upwards in a reek of ghi and sandalwood. I can imagine this event.
I can imagine its aftermath, the particles of my body tumbling over the land in the
hot weather. I see my ashes settling on earth somewhere, sinking into the soil. A
peck of dust reabsorbed into the mother, ready to be remade as – as what? As a
drinking cup or a bowl. A sword. A bolt of cloth. The world shuffling its substance,
spitting out another form like dice falling from a shaker.

Of the things that are mine, my voice will be the last to vanish. A word, a vibration
of sound travelling off into the void. I send out these words, each one a tiny bubble
sunya of meaning, straining towards the moment when its surface will collapse into noth-
ing under the unimaginable pressures of time and space. One by one, they shall
vanish. Then silence.

A few days ago, the rains came. From my window, I have been watching as the river
swells and the parched red land turns green. At night I lie on my charpai listening
to the fat drops drum on the roof, a sound like the galloping of cavalry. The unseen
garden is busy with insects and the wall by my side is spongy-soft, cold and wet as
a water-carrier’s goatskin. In the darkness, under the brush of my fingertips, the wall
seems to breathe. I catch myself thinking how odd a time this is to die.

Perhaps. Death only seems surprising if, as when I reach out at night and touch my
bedroom wall, I am trapped in the present moment. Escape and I am reminded that
short story by Hari Kunzru all this colour and moisture, all the pulse of new growth, will not last. A few wax-

8 9
ings and wanings of the moon and once again the earth will be copper and the sky a toy to amuse the king, who could never grasp its true use or significance.
a block of hot stone. A commonplace idea, yet it would have troubled me once. Now
I am content with the thought of negation, even of my own negation. It brings no I built a calculating engine, using humming birds, silver coins and tiny loops of fra-
sadness with it. Something goes to nothing. Making goes to unmaking. The wheel grant khus grass. The same device, with minor modifications, could be used to per-
turns, harnessing negative and positive in a mechanism of eternal generation, a flow- form basic astrological predictions. At court I was richly rewarded, His Highness at
ering. least realising the importance of tracking the motions of the heavens. Encouraged,
I worked on a method of measuring the distance from the earth to the moon, using
I am interested in mechanical things. I have built many of them myself. a prism, a quantity of crushed mother-of-pearl, and a bowl of quicksilver. I had an
idea for a means of actually making the journey there (it was not too far), but my
I once built a clock, consisting of a number of brass jars suspended on a wooden master the sovereign would not hear of it. He gave me herds of cows and richly-har-
wheel. Filled with water, they rotated in a precise sequence, each one tipping its con- nessed horses, and told me to think of other things. When I demurred, he sternly
tents into the next and so moving a series of cogs and levers. The mechanism turned bade me return home and find for him – of all things – the chemical formulation of
an enamelled dial decorated with the figure of a panther. In the slits of its eyes, fig- jealousy.
ures standing for the hours of the day could be read off.
Jealousy! What a ridiculous idea.
I built a message-keeper. It was made in the form of a silver flagon inside which
were millions of tiny glass beads, suspended in a clear gelatinous solution. To use it, Still one does not disobey the monarch, and I spent three fruitless years on the task.
you breathed your message into the flagon’s mouth and stopped it up. When the The physical basis of the emotions eluded me, though I brewed and titrated, heated
recipient uncorked it, the beads vibrated and the sound of your words were released. and filtered, centrifuged and separated every substance from uncut rubies to the
In this way I preserved the voices of the dead. That was important to me, at the time. hearts of newborn baby chicks. I discovered many other wonders as by-products of
the research, its progress speeded by the assistants my new wealth enabled me to
I designed another message device, but never constructed more than a tiny proto- hire. I found cures for plague and sleeping sickness, a way of reconstructing the faces
type. I had the idea after spending the afternoon watching a spider build a web. of lepers, and, at the secret behest of the Rani, mixed an ointment from the crushed
Imagine such a web, fashioned from crystal, spread over a town, or a province, or carapaces of black beetles that, when spread on the member of generation, ensured
an entire empire. Imagine light of different colours and intensities transmitted the birth of healthy children. Despite her praise, I became listless and bored.
through these filaments, modulated in such a way as to carry meaning. How perfect!
How beautiful! Yet my model web measured no more than an arm’s span. It func- Finally, the king gave up his foolish obsession with jealousy, an obsession stimulat-
tioned as I planned, when stimulated by my system of optic sources. Yet it was just ed by a particularly acrobatic nautch girl and quelled by the childishly simple expe-
10 11
dient of executing her other lovers. At last I was able to return to my own true love, dwarfed the operations of our senses. We noticed the swaying houdahs of the gen-
the study of mechanics. I fell to building automata, constructing a number of brass erals, the flick of their fly-whisks as they directed operations from their armoured
dogs and falcons and a chess-playing warrior which I gave as a present to the King. elephants. We saw the scythed wheels of the chariots, the bobbing crests on the hel-
He in turn presented it to one of his generals, in recognition of some victory or other. mets of the cavalry, the ranks of footsoldiers charging forwards to break on our
This annoyed me. I felt under-appreciated. Looking back, I am astounded by my pet- defences like the waves of the sea. We thought to ourselves – many, all, infinite,
tiness. I had become soft and spoilt. My vanity led me to expect exaggerated defer- grains of sand, attributes of the gods. We looked at each other, and knew the mean-
ence from those around me. I would fly into rages if I was contradicted, and spent ing of our looks, the fear, the realisation – now comes the collapse, the failure of
hours poring over imagined slights and humiliations. Yet all of that was soon to be thought …
wiped out. All of that thoughtless life, the life I believed was so profound, was to
vanish without a trace. Nothing could equate to the terror of that war, no act of witness or truth-telling. It
was unimaginable, unnameable, an event that exceeded all words and formulations.
The war changed everything. Things were done which will never be encompassed by language, even the allusive
language of poetry which steps sideways towards its subjects and allows meanings
We were invaded by a huge army, raised by one of our Northern neighbours. We to grow through the gaps in words. What use to outline the losses we suffered? What
saw it first as a vast black cloud, a pall of smoke from burning crops and villages use to name the horrors we saw, or the horrors we perpetrated ourselves as the con-
which blotted out the sun. The darkness terrified the townspeople, who began to shut flict grew more bitter? We were crushed. We were annihilated. Our towers and
up their houses and bury their valuables beneath the floors of their houses. Their fear palaces were razed to the ground, our gods toppled, our tongues torn out of our
worsened as they saw the dreadful condition of the refugees who flooded through the mouths so we could no longer recite our stories.
gates, their wounds bound with strips of bark, hastily-wrapped bundles of posses-
sions on their backs. From the city walls we soon saw the glint of metal and felt the Severed head. Blackened stump of a tree. Charred field. A crow, picking at the body
vibrations of the horde as it moved closer. In the temples, the priests poured liba- of a child. No, it is no use. The list could carry on forever and still have no value. A
tions of milk over the gods and smeared their mouths with spices. The libations mouth opening and closing. The idiocy of pure sound.
turned sour, and the spices to blood and excrement. Some of us began to feel cold,
to guess what was fated for us. We were annihilated. That is to say, we were made nothing. And yet somehow I
survived. Through chance, cowardice, bravery or treachery, what does it matter
At last, we saw the army itself. The shock of its immensity splintered our percep- which? I stood, a living body amidst the ruins, a collection of matter still miracu-
tions, overwhelming our minds so that we could only take in details. How could we lously held together despite the violence which had swept over my head. I sat down
ascribe a proportion to this phenomenon? How could we think of it as one thing? It in the dirt, indifferent to my survival. I smeared myself with ashes. For a long time
12 13
I did not move or speak.

Something becomes nothing. A circle in the sand. When my surroundings became

distinct to me, this is what I saw. A circle. The round rim of my wooden begging
bowl. I scratched in the sand with a stick, while around my head fluttered fragments
of the past, humming birds and palaces, rubies and running water, all so many silly
ornaments fit only for children’s stories. To the nine signs of numeration, scratch, I
add a tenth. The sign of nothingness, the sign of the nothing that is something. The
sign of that which has no qualities except existence. The sign of myself.

I could have told you my name, but what would be the purpose? I could have told
you my age, my sex, my caste. I could have numbered and named my children, my
city, the titles of the dynasty of kings to whom I once owed allegiance. All these
things are illusion. I have uttered a syllable which names the void, and it would be

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foolish to expect immunity from its operation.

Sunya, zero, nought, the wheel. This is the true building. All the works of the future
will be built on the foundation of nothing, each figure transported to a higher plane
by the addition of a circle in the sand. Put the void into operation, and watch the
generation of life. I have seeded sunya through the slowly-rebuilding city, and even
as my speech dies into silence it is taking hold. Nothing, scratched onto tablets.
Nothing, numbering our stores of grain. I like mechanical things. I once built many
of them myself. But unmaking is my final making, and like everything created I find
myself falling into the void. The walls breathe and I unravel. My fame, the record of
my works and all their rotting remains. These have already disappeared. My appear-
ance, my name, my body, the bubbles of my words. Dust motes in a column of sun-
light, ashes tumbling over the hot, dry land.

14
 photos: Sabine Pigalle
right to left · cape by Stella Cadente · top by Chanel · top by Stella Cadente · gold lace from Le Bon Marché
16
both tops by Christian Lacroix · belts by Christian Lacroix · leggings from La Clef des poncho by Van Ommeslaeghe · necklace by Yves Saint Laurent · leggings from La Clef des Marques
Marques · shoes by Chanel · socks by Xuly Bet
left to right · blouse by Oscar Suleyman · hot pants by Gilles Rosier · belts by Yves Saint Laurent left to right · dress by Tom van Lingen · collar by Martine Sitbon · catsuits by Repetto · belts by Yves Saint
leggings by Repetto · sweater by Gaspard Yurkievich Laurent · shoes by Chanel · dress by Alexandre Matthieu
 FENDI
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styling: Christophe Martinez · photo assistant: Clement Guillaume · hair: Maxime Massé @ Calliste
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 Geocities

We are simmering in communication and information. I believe it’s called hyper-

thelia, an excess of function, the evolution that causes certain animals to develop
enormous limbs, tails or horns which end up being cumbersome and paralysing. Am
I mistaken, or are we in a hyperthelia of communication? Linguist and semeiologist
Paolo Fabbri replies: "There are so many items of information that they get hidden
one beneath the other. Taken individually they’re transparent, but the superimpos-
ing of the layers creates an effect of opacity." The best way to find precious infor-
mation is to lose yourself among the layers, which on the internet is fortunately not
hard to do.

Geocities is the site of the so-named alternative lifestyles, meaning the boundless
they call me
world of "deviancies" (from what?). Here, the various communities find voice and cit-
olga on the net
izenship. Geocities paints a future perhaps not far from reality. The communities are
gathered, according to affinity of interests, in "condominiums" which bear the name
of a city. But the inhabitants of the Paris "condominium" are dispersed in Lisbon,
New York, Milan, Stockholm … The West Hollywood "condominium" contains thou-
sands of pages of transsexuals. On the West Hollywood "inhabitants" list, each page
has a flag at the side showing the page-owner’s country, so it is easy to visualise at
once the actual geographical composition of the users. And at the same time note a
resounding repudiation of certain clichés. The cliché says, for example, that France
is the paradise of transvestism: we need only think of the Trocadero, the Cage aux
folles, Cocinelle, the Michou … The cliché also says "no sex please, we’re British."
Yet the West Hollywood list gave less than a dozen pages of transvestites in France,
whereas in Great Britain there were thousands.

words by Filippo Bianchi

52 53
From a slightly more in-depth survey two groups of countries emerged: a group in then I let out a strangled, high-pitched scream in some way borrowed from the Nô
which the phenomenon was vastly more widespread, including the United States, theatre. During this game the other day, I actually did cut my ear, the first time it
Great Britain, much of the former Commonwealth (Canada, Australia, New had happened in ten years: well, the trick we normally call ‘representation’ contained
Zealand), Spain, Brazil, Mexico and some oriental countries (Japan, Singapore, an extra element of truth this time. But there was nobody to see it except the ush-
Hong Kong, Taiwan); and another in which there was hardly a trace of it, including ers, who were very nice and concerned, they wanted to stop everything and get me
France, Germany, Scandinavia, Benelux, Italy, Austria and Switzerland. an anti-tetanus injection; but this wasn’t the point." The truth contained in "the trick
we call representation" is, on the contrary, exactly the point.
The myriad of "gender" definitions encountered along the way wholly upsets your
mental patterns. I don’t know about you, but when I was a child they explained to
me that the sexes were two. Then, growing up, I intuited that they were at least four. Abuse of silicon
The concept of bisexuality subsequently brought them to six. In reality it would seem
that there are several dozen, maybe hundreds … the two "extreme" sexes (male and Madrid. Exterior. Day. The square in front of the University. Ernesto knows what
female) and the vast range of possibilities in-between. Olga looks like, but Olga doesn’t know what Ernesto looks like (he looks much
worse). She’s sitting at a café table drinking coffee. Though she has lately opted for
"Drag is ten per cent paint and ninety per cent attitude," I happened to read on a dark hair she is wearing a blonde wig in Ernesto’s honour because he prefers her
website. that way. Her enigmatic smile takes its place in a tradition that runs from the Mona
Lisa to Marina Vlady. Her eyes "are undipped headlights, and I’m in front of them"
as in the song by Mal of the Primitives. After scrutinising a bit from a distance
Representation Ernesto, rigid as a dried cod, approaches her and politely extends his hand.

In the summer of 1989, Hans Bennink, the Dutch improviser-performer-musician, Ernesto: "Buenas dias, I’m Ernesto..."
was invited to take part in a rather peculiar event at the Venice Biennale entitled,
"The impossible quest or theatre without a show". What happened, in brief, was this: Olga: [Ignoring the hand, lets out a fine thirty-two teeth laugh, stands up and hugs
several artists from various disciplines did more or less what they wanted, behind him]: "You’re a real idiot, just as I expected! Ciao, my dear old friend!" [Releases
closed doors and with no public. Interviewed on the subject, Bennink recounted: him from the hug and looks him up and down] "I imagined you more elderly … and
"There’s a sort of ‘game’ I play now and then: I put on a false ear, take a large pair plainer."
of scissors and I cut it while saying to myself, ‘Here’s a self-portrait of van Gogh’,

54 55
Ernesto [smiling shyly]: "You saw me as a right disaster then?" understanding a transvestite’s personality. They’re frightened by why or what does
it mean or by what are the implications." [Starts getting carried away] "Not to
They sit down. Olga calls the waiter. Ernesto, with his usual boiled chicken air,
orders a coffee.
When I go out with my wife we often get caught in night-time traffic
Olga: "Are you embarrassed?" bottle-necks along the Tiber: hundreds of cars queuing up for the
transvestite prostitutes, so many respectable fathers of families, loads
Ernesto: "No more than when I go to buy condoms … fairly embarrassed." of big cars, Mercedes, BMWs, Alfa Romeos …

Olga: "Physical contact with a trans is pretty different from the virtual world."
know! That seems to be the highest aspiration in our societies. Everybody busy all
Ernesto: "It may be, but you shouldn’t take me as a yardstick: uneasiness is one of day doing things they detest in order to joyfully buy highly expensive pieces of sheet
my frequent states. Whereas in general, if I may say so, I don’t think people are metal (they call them cars), pieces of plastic (they call them anything), pieces of flesh
‘physically’ scared by transgenderism." (they call them prostitutes or wives or lovers or steaks). No wonder they need viril-
ity pills to get it up! They’ve lost intimacy with their own ‘piece of meat’, they no
Olga: "In what sense?" longer know how it works, they haven’t read the manual or maybe they were too
busy with the user’s manual for the car, the computer etcetera. This is how we’ve
Ernesto: "When I go out with my wife we often get caught in night-time traffic bot- come to the ‘mechanical’ vision of sex. The widespread use of vibrators notwith-
tle-necks along the Tiber: hundreds of cars queuing up for the transvestite prosti- standing, I don’t seem to have found this vision in the T-world."
tutes, so many respectable fathers of families, loads of big cars, Mercedes, BMWs,
Alfa Romeos …" Olga: [laughing] "Always caustic, my Ernesto..."

Olga: "The same everywhere, eh?" Ernesto: "It’s the same ‘mechanical’ conception of man that’s behind psychophar-
macology: a cancer of the soul, if you want my opinion. I hope it doesn’t offend you,
Ernesto: "Exactly. People don’t at all mind accepting a ‘service’ from a transvestite, but I’ve come to the conclusion that trangenderism is much more a cultural and psy-
and maybe giving one. The abuse of silicone and plastic surgery doesn’t bother them chological than a physical challenge. It’s a criticism of the established order. And,
since they’re already used to it in their women … But I think they’re pretty far from in fact, if the police in my country fought the Mafia and corruption with the same

56 57
commitment they dedicate to persecuting transvestites, Italy would be a paradise! ers just keep them there for their reproductive and decorative functions. But the atti-
You once wrote me that I’ve made you feel like ‘a magnificently cultivated flower’. tude towards women is always and in any case one of possession, and the more fruit
I was glad about that. Forgive the stale metaphor, but the flower doesn’t exist that there is in the garden, the better. Though I do admit that this avidity also varies from
grows without being cultivated in some way: even the wildest flowers need a little person to person.
sun and rain. The same goes for the flower we’ve got between our legs, or for the
one we’ve got in our brain, there’s no difference …" "Woman desires in another form. On the one hand, she is pleased to be the fruit to
be squeezed, and she fantasises about the teeth that will bite her, the lips that will
Throughout this sort of monologue, Olga has been smilingly contemplating Ernesto, suck her, the throat that will taste all her woman’s nectar. However, on the other
more touched than amazed by the swerve from initial awkwardness to sudden hand, she is not satisfied with being an object used, devoured and exhibited, and she
harangue. Now that he has finished she takes his hand affectionately. dreams that her man will also be capable of caring for her, listening to her, appre-
ciating her … I’m there in the middle, between these two emotional worlds. I desire
Olga: "Perhaps chamomile tea would’ve been better than coffee... Let’s get going, women like a woman, I like to be savoured and squeezed by the woman I love, and
we’ve got a lot of work to do." as a man I can’t bear women who expect rapacious male behaviour from me. Being
desired makes me feel alive, fresh and lovely, like a fruit in fact. Of course, all this
Ernesto pays the bill and off they go, arm in arm. might only be a huge contradiction, and maybe my hopes of understanding things
are outside the realms of the possible.

American virgins "My wife loves me as I am: we go shopping together, we swap clothes. She was also
the first person to see my self-portraits in stockings and suspender belt and she found
Olga: "Listen, I’m fully convinced that women experience the object of sexual desire them quite exciting! During our first year of marriage, I gave up dressing as a
in a different way from men. And it isn’t just a question of education. Nature is wise woman, thinking that I had managed to relegate this practice to the past. But that’s
and gives different weapons of defence to each and every one, gives men and women not the way it turned out. In psychoanalysis, Olga acquired full awareness of her own
distinct ways of being, doing and thinking. And we have to learn to blend these ways importance and her renewed energy. My wife followed the progress of the therapy
if we want to live better. Men are greedy: they desire their object as if it were a fruit, closely for two years. She was an eyewitness to Olga’s "growth", to her desire to
and they fantasise about how to get their teeth into it, suck its juice, squeeze it to appear more often and in a more sophisticated form.
the full. I don’t want to fall into the stereotype of the male destroyer: there are men
who care lovingly for their orchards, water them, prune them, fertilise them … oth- The first time she saw me all dressed up and made-up, she got a shock: who on earth

58 59
was this creature looking down at her from eight-inch heels, moving slinkily and sen- liked Indians and couldn’t stand cowboys. He went on to stand with the Algerians
suously like some Queen of the Night? She burst into tears when she saw me against the French, the Vietcong against the Yanks, the proletariat against the boss-
es, the Palestinians against the Zionists, flesh artists against plastic artists, inde-
pendents against oligopolies. Towards the end of the century we find him with the
In fact if the police in my country fought the Mafia and corruption with gender benders against the heterosexual or homosexual fundamentalists. And it isn’t
the same commitment they dedicate to persecuting transvestites, Italy as if he hasn’t put feeling into all these lost causes, it isn’t as if he hasn’t fought with
would be a paradise! honesty. But he ‘felt’ them in the head and not in the guts. And so, now and then,
he also heard a little voice inside that asked: ‘But what have you got to do with all
this stuff? Where do you come into it?’ And he’s never been able to give a convinc-
come out of the bathroom like that, and she cried again at the second attempt. Now ing answer."
she doesn’t cry any more. She’s even learnt, with a will power that moves me, to
treat me like a woman in bed. I believe I was lucky to meet her, and with her I am Olga [perplexed]: "I sometimes wonder if you’re the most suitable person to write
– almost – perfectly happy. She understands this part of me and even though she this, really, and I say it with great affection. The cultivation of doubt is always legit-
doesn’t like it, she accepts it. imate, God forbid! But what we need today is convinced affirmation, enthusiasm
without second thoughts." [Giving him a challenging look] "Would you like to come
Perhaps deep down she’s afraid that one day social pressures will force me into mak- to bed with me?"
ing a radical choice, to be only a man or only a woman. I don’t have any such fears
because I feel I’ve found a balance. In reality my struggle is precisely this: refuse the Ernesto keeps quiet, fainting.
obligation to choose either one or the other, refuse to live only one point of view. I
am two together, even if I have only one body." Olga: "Listen, very few men have been granted this privilege … "

Ernesto: "In the beginning, Ernesto ‘betrayed his class’ as they used to say in the Ernesto takes on a cocker spaniel look.
Sixties and, a rare case, has continued to do so. He grew up in the upper middle
class and ventured down quite a few rungs on the social ladder. This is interesting Olga: "Do you need a couple of screwdrivers to get you going, like a little American
because it’s an unusual itinerary. But it implies that Ernesto is used to fighting, with virgin?"
as much passion as you like, battles that are not his own. Even as a child he ‘played
at minorities’, he preferred to side with the weakest because it seemed more fun: he

60 61
Five legendary flunkeys Nature

Ernesto’s house. Interior. Day. Ernesto is waking up, he yawns, rubs his eyes. "Grass," it was said in fateful 1968, "grows neither from the bottom nor from the top
Ernesto: "Ah, dear Olga, the dream’s over. There’s something prophetic in your but from the middle." And it is in this indistinct and fecund zone that Olga lives.
thoughts. Are we all maybe waiting for an androgynous messiah who’ll teach men For years, Joe Papp was the director of the New York Public Theatre. Apart from
and women how to love each other again? But if I have to get my ideas straight, I being an institution in American theatre, he was also a person of considerable wis-
don’t know about the feminine ideal. What about all those shark-women I’ve known? dom. I happened to contact him about a tour that a Dutch musical ensemble – the
And all those girls in camouflage pants and army boots demonstrating some time Willem Breuker Kollektief – was trying to organise in America. When he received
ago for speedier approval of the law to let women into the armed forces? When they the material, he called me to say: "I’ve listened to the WBK records with pleasure.
were interviewed they answered with garbage worthy of the marines, such as ‘I want They’re really admirable and original. In fact the most interesting aspect is that you
to defend the country...’" [Gets out of bed] "God, could I do with a coffee ... I real- don’t know how to classify them. Which, unfortunately, in this country also makes
ly don’t know this thing we’re seeking, we could also call it femininity since rela- them unsaleable." Right, each thing has the defects of its own virtues.
tional language doesn’t relate to anything any more. We could also call it ‘the ten-
der aspect of living beings’ … We could also no longer understand anything about
it, which is in fact the case."

He gets up, goes into the kitchen and puts the coffee on, still thinking aloud. What
little hair he has left stands on end, he sits down. "If I were a serious journalist … Filippo Bianchi is a music critic and promoter in Rome. Chiamami Olga.net by Filippo Bianchi ©

let’s see … Kipling’s five legendary flunkeys … What ? This we already knew: dress- 1999, Feltrinelli Traveller S.r.l

ing as a woman. Where ? Oh, here there and everywhere, from Australia to Portugal.
Who ? Loads of people, a lot more than you might reasonably suppose … When ?
Since time immemorial and probably forever after. Why ? Ah yes … why? This is
the flunkey that has managed to get away, at least for the moment: there lies the
mystery, he’s the killer, the one I can’t understand. And as far as I can see I’m not
the only one …"

62 63
 irish races

photos: Bruce Gilden

courtesy of Bruce Gilden / Magnum Photos London

64
68 69
 photos: Lee Powers

76
styling: Cynthia Lawrence-John · hair: George Ng-Yu-Tin · make-up: John Christopher using Face,
Stockholm · design: Bump · models: Adeola + Tim @ Models 1 · Lulla + Michelle @ Select
Nina + Emma @ IMG + Keith @ Assassin
 Dogs. Night. On alert. Each step is measured. Silent soles. We don't want to be seen.
Ears pinned back to hear anything that dares.

"Where is he?"

Nobody asks. Our fear is a silencer on his gun. It's the case of a people found
drowned in bricks thrown. The estate is full of it. Full of him.

"Where is he?"

No-one asks. But they know what they're waiting for expecting to hurt the dark.

Goliath
Thick with hate
goliath
He spits poisoned pigeons dropping from the sky

"The devil is winning"

Someone thinks, but doesn't say.

This Goliath. He steals childhood. With thoughts of him they play in silence. Playing
is a serious business. His estate makes little animals of them. If you don't always
want to be the prey. Learn to hide. Or learn to kill.

And the old people are stuck in the mud of his fear, naked scarecrows with moon
white skin.

poem by Matthew Dunster

A VOICE I saw him rip out his best friends eye
84 85
ANOTHER No one said He hauls himself up. Straight upstairs for his big black coat. He looks through his
window at the half lit half not lit estate that they call his. And he hates.
Our fear is a silencer on his gun.
He hates watching people night and day moving through the pathetic little shopping
And each night we wait for Goliath. And who are we, what are we when he fingers parade with all its windows barred to stop him
the door and breaks the wife. Eats our life. He hates the pale ghosts walking quickly as if they don't want to be seen
He hates their cheap clothes
The devil is winning. He has found a body with legs like cooling towers. Arms like He hates the shitty cold meats they sell
cranes. No fat yet, only nineteen. His face a constant battle between flesh and stone. He hates the fat women in white plastic sandals and white sports socks
He crashes down his stairs a giant in a Wendy House. He blows open the door of the He hates them for having nothing to show him
living room where you can't. A shape like his Mum sits near his dad a million miles He hates them for being on this estate
away. Each day they squeeze out just a few whispers to each other in sentences that He hates them for being carriers of a disease
fall and die at the end. And now there's a whole cemetery of words between them. Failure
Where he stands. This Goliath, this Jack pressed down in a box. He tries, like he's Their failure to get out
always tried, to sit a moment with them. He folds his great body. A slag heap on a His failure
toy chair. He looks at them. Dad's mad and thinks he's the sea. Eyes closed with The failure of a big fat greasy selfish stinking rich England that he knows is out there
"There was never a chance" tattooed under his lids. A shark with no tail and no fins gorging on council pig swill
hangs from Mum's arm sending chocolates and oranges to her brain, clever see, so It's failure to deliver
she misses her soul seeping out into the greedy fish. Goliath, a self-raising child. And he hurts
Nudges Mum for money. It's like knocking at a derelict house with its eyes boarded He's such a big thing that there is so much to hurt so much hurt in him
up. Waste of time he knows it. Just wants to hear her excuses. And the stone on his face is chiselled with it, as he blows open all his doors to take
him onto his streets. He knows the devil is winning and he is going to be on the win-
"I've got nowt Little Joe." ning side.

Joe the name everyone else has forgotten. And wouldn't dare use. He's fuelled by And we know he's coming
their patheticness. Filling up his tank for a night out on the estate. He gets nothing. And who are we what are we as we wait
Nothing. Little Little Joe ready to squeeze out some life ready to squeeze out some lives.

86 87
 photos: Lise Sarfati
courtesy of Lise Sarfati @
Magnum Photos London + Phaidon Press a russian remedy
words by Olga Medvedkova Transsexual, Alexandra Loukiantchik at Kazan train station

88
The Serbsky Institution for Psychiatric Expertise
 Colony for Re-education through Labour for underaged boys

The notion of ruins suggests Rome, Rome suggests empire and empire evokes deca- cigarettes. Sarfati went with them to the Serbski Psychiatric Institute, where they
dence and the coming of the barbarians. Haunted by the idea of Rome, Russia has were assessed, and then to the institution for young offenders at Ikcha, a small gulag
collapsed historical time; empire and "barbarisation" are contemporaneous. In the for juveniles. It was not a photographic assignment, nor a study of moral behaviour;
words of Francesco Algarotti, the Russians build nothing but ruins. although she continued taking photographs, Sarfati’s first motive was to live with
these people, and to stay with them wherever they went.
In 1992, Lise Sarfati came across three boys hanging about in Moscow’s Pushkin
Square, and ended up – she has forgotten how – going home with them. She met The story, which lasted about five years, could have been written by Dostoevsky;
their mother and came back several times to take photographs. Because their father, there are the three brothers, the murder, the sinister ambience and lastly, the brief
an alcoholic, was violent, the three brothers rarely went home. One day, in a pedes- news item, experienced from within, which provides the starting point for a narra-
trian underpass, the three of them killed a man who resembled him, for a packet of tion which then departs from it completely.
 Transsexuals Aza and Alexandra. First operation. Basseinova Hospital

Shuffled together like cards, the photographs of the boys – seen later as adolescents The body exists independently of cultural or social conditions; it lives, suffers,
and young men – are preceded by a short sequence that belongs to a different world. assumes a position. By the mere fact of its presence, it provides a scale, softens
Sarfati’s images of transsexuals who have recently had surgery in a Moscow hospi- straight lines, blurs angles. Sarfati’s bodies appear as such, as objects introduced
tal provide a key to an appropriate reading of her photographs of people. They put among others, but unlike objects, they are more easily broken up: a boy’s legs as he
the body at the centre of her work as an artist. bends over to move a bed, a girl’s body half hidden in her bedroom at a detention
centre in Novy Oskol. Next to objects – chairs, lamps or beds – they seem less solid;
To give an idea of the conditions under which she worked, it is worth they inscribe themselves, infiltrate themselves, but in bits, in specific details, as if
noting that when the governor finally agreed to admit her, he kindly devoid of personal will. They may sometimes move, lie down or sit, but they do so
offered to allow her to photograph people engaging in sodomy. by themselves, as bodies. The boys in the showers, posing perfectly like Greek stat-
ues, are nothing other than academic nudes, flooded by a warm light that casts them
 Colony for Re-education through Labour for underaged girls

into a soft chiaroscuro and brings out their contours. This stylised classicism, which centre, the horizontal line dividing the wall into two areas, white and blue, and the
also expresses itself in the static and balanced composition of these photographs, is weightiness of a plant, also horizontal, force the body to adopt this horizontal align-
akin to the classicism of the ruins of the Stalin era. ment, to lie down, to die and plunge into an underground or submarine world. The plant
exults in its funereal green, and only the electric socket, set crooked (Barthes’ "indica-
Working on the theme of the body in a Russian detention centre is another of Lise tive detail"), awkward and irregular, seems to break the law of parallel lines.
Sarfati’s paradoxes. (To give an idea of the conditions under which she worked, it is
worth noting that when the governor finally agreed to admit her, he kindly offered to In the Moscow psychiatric institute, a refectory table is covered in garish oil-cloth,
allow her to photograph people engaging in sodomy.) But it is a useful paradox, as optimistic as a Soviet poster, with strawberries the size of tomatoes: an image of
because by acting as a yardstick, the body puts to the test everything surrounding it. It happiness redolent of the nightmarish experiments of Michurin selection, while in
is around the body that space and objects yield their meaning. In the Ikcha detention almost exaggerated contrast, three pieces of black bread lie on it. The cloth draws
the eye towards the distance, to the peeling wall and a torn picture of a birch wood attempt at meaning, the photographic record hides its double nature: the thing is
in autumn. This kitsch theatre set, bursting with joy and "naturalistic" patriotism, there, "just like that", but it is also "like" something else, something one cannot or
would be almost funny did it not push out towards the margins the shaven heads of dare not name.
two patients, as if excluding them from the performance.

At this level of density, and through a simple accumulation of detail, the image takes
on an appearance that is both metaphysical and tautological, a situation that in
everyday language is rendered by the phrase, "that’s just how it is". That’s just how
it is, because it would be futile to search here for an individual will, for reasons to
act or for notions of culpability. In its neutrality, its back turned firmly on any
98
Text by Olga Medvedkova, reproduced from Acta Est © 2000 Phaidon Press Limited.
Published June 2000. RRP £24.95. ISBN 0 7148 3910 8.
 photos: Felix Lammers

102
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 Castro arrived at the restaurant lobby and, looking around, felt his resolve waver-
ing. Beyond the unassuming exterior was an atmosphere of subtle, if lavish, ele-
gance-nineteen-thirties Shanghai chic. The concierge, a caramel-skinned Asian,
exhibited nothing short of panic when Castro appeared through the Arctic blue
opaque automatic sliding doors. Castro approached him. He had dressed smartly,
but in a way that spoke subliminally of the street, of possible danger. He wore a fit-
ted navy blue short- sleeved shirt (antique YSL) with a baby blue tie and beige cardi-
gan. His suit pants, which buttoned on the waist, were of the same slightly shim-
mering navy blue fabric as his shirt.

The outfit had been a group effort by his gang, the Jedi; they had all chipped in for
the pants from a sublime thrift store that Herc had discovered. The shirt was
Castro’s, the cardigan a new acquisition of Nikki’s. Ike had obtained the tie from
the apartment of some wealthy woman he had spent the night with – her husband’s.
Castro hoped, in a moment of paranoia, that the husband wasn’t here. The gun that
he carried as a matter of course seemed suddenly out of place here amongst the tin-
kle of crystal and genteel conversation. He saw the concierge’s eyes dart down to his
crotch and belly area where it bulged obviously. Before the concierge had time to
gather his wits, Castro spoke, "I’m meeting Mr. Jackson."

Relief flooded the beleaguered man’s face. "Aaah, yes, yes, of course!" he enthused,
"This way."

Castro drew stares from the clientele as he was led through the restaurant, some
fearful, some indignant, some prurient, intrigued … The crowd was European roy-
excerpt from a novel by John H. Dunning
the eskimo room alty and the super-rich, two quite distinctive, if co-dependent, groups. A few celebri-
photo by Christian de Sousa
ties were dotted around as hangers-on, but were religiously ignored. Castro smiled

110 111
 at the attention as he swaggered through them, his gaze drawn upwards to the huge sculptures, detailed paintings on animal skin, knives and arrowheads, masks with
but infinitely delicate chandelier which hung above the restaurant’s centre. Around long, dark human hair … To Castro they seemed to speak of the ghastly Arctic deeps
it played a hologram of the aurora borealis, its soft shifting colours refracting off the and the beauty of month-long nights illuminated by the aurora borealis. The door
chandelier's surface into a million dancing lights. shut behind him, and as it did, his eyes found Michael.

He was sitting on a semi-circular couch set into the wall. On the polished wooden
The gun seemed suddenly out of place here amongst the tinkle of table-top in front of him stood a half-finished bloody mary, a deep purple cut glass
crystal and genteel conversation. He saw the concierge’s eyes dart ashtray, an ornate brass bell and a pack of cigarettes – open. Michael smiled at
down to his crotch and belly area where it bulged obviously. Castro, his teeth sparkling like razorblades in his lipglosscapuccino mouth.

"Hi, Castro," purred Michael.

The concierge stopped at a black lacquer door that was partially hidden from view
by a series of translucent blue glass screens through which liquid crystal glaciers "Michael," Castro nodded.
sluggishly drifted. A tall woman stood to one side of the door. She looked as though
she could snap an opponent like a twig, yet somehow retained something feminine "Take a seat."
about her, something alluring. Her generous breasts gleamed under a sheath of
metal armour that served to display rather than hide her impressive form. On see- Castro sat opposite Michael, studying him; eyes surrounded by heavy kohl and
ing them approach, Uma turned and entered the door, closing it behind her. On the maroon glitter, glossy black hair in a middle parting, styled close to his head in
door was a creamy ivory-coloured bone plaque. On its surface, in simple black deco waves. Around his wrists he wore what Castro correctly guessed to be real diamond
characters, was spelled "The Eskimo Room." Moments later she reappeared and, bracelets with silver padlocks on them, attached to which were delicate chains that
shooting a rueful glance at Castro's gun, ushered him through. disappeared up Michael’s arms and into the short sleeves of his imperial yellow
Chinese silk dress.
"Enjoy your evening," the concierge called after him.
"Something to drink?" offered Michael.
Inside the room was an entirely different world. The light was muted, the roof cov-
ered in heavy burgundy fabric. Chinese lanterns seeped sickly rainbow light. On the "Sure. I’ll have a gin and tonic. A double," he responded, thinking it appropriate. A
darkly painted walls hung delicate pieces of Eskimo art. Seal and polar bear tooth g+t always made Castro think of decadently stylish colonial parties in the tropics,

112 113
and tonight, he and Michael looked the part.

Michael rang the bell, the sonic communiqué passing through Castro and out to
Uma. She appeared in the doorway.

"A double gin and tonic please Uma."

Michael returned his attention to Castro, drinking him in, intoxicated. Castro leaned
back, unselfconsciously resting his hands on his crotch. Michael wanted to keep this
boy with him, inside him, to devour him whole … perhaps roasted, flavoured with
Cajun pepper and raspberry sauce … His reverie was interrupted by Castro.

"I didn’t think packing a gun was allowed in places like this," he said, reaching under
his shirt, taking it out and laying it on the table.

"It isn’t. You’re with me," replied Michael simply.

Castro nodded in understanding, grinning. The door opened and a thickset Asian
woman entered with a tray. There was something profoundly serene about her, her
face a changeless pool of tranquillity framed by long, jetblack hair. Castro made the
connection; these people were Inuit, Eskimo. That explained the surroundings, the
perfect attention to detail. There was something oddly contradictory between this
broad-shouldered woman with no make-up on her striking features and her outfit,
an antique velvet evening gown that hung on her like a decoration. It lent the dress
an entirely new interpretation.

She set the tray down, carefully transferring three bowls onto the table. Castro had

115
 been right, these were Inuit delicacies; crunchy antler tips, slivers of dark crimson Michael watched Castro’s eyes roaming the shape of his body, his smooth lunarpale
seal meat that lay in a pool of blood and blocks of frozen raw caribou. Finally, she skin. Castro’s curiosity had become a desire to know. Would he ever know this
set Castro’s drink down. strange creature that transfixed him with its huge, dark eyes, he wondered. He bare-
ly realised Michael was moving until he was standing. He came over to Castro and
kneeled in front of his chair. Michael’s eyes were no longer unfathomable, they
On the darkly painted walls hung delicate pieces of Eskimo art. Seal and seemed almost vulnerable. Castro was getting hard. He allowed his hands to feel
polar bear tooth sculptures, detailed paintings on animal skin, knives their way across Michael’s bony shoulders and meet around his neck. Michael’s head
and arrowheads, masks with long, dark human hair … rolled back, his lips parted.

Castro could feel Michael’s hands sliding around his calves, up his thighs. Michael
"Thank you Tam," Michael said, smiling warmly. She smiled back, then left the room unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his tattooed chest. Jedi was written across the almost
with the unhurried dignity that characterised her. hairless flesh. He unbuttoned, then unzipped, Castro’s pants, freeing his dick which
throbbed with rhythmic pulses. He let his lips brush lightly against the light sprinkle
Castro picked up a piece of the seal meat and ate it, leaving his fingertips smeared of hair that lead from Castro’s belly-button down … the hot shaft of Castro's penis
with blood, a smudge on his lips. He helped himself to one of Michael’s cigarettes, against his face … the smell of blood on Castro’s hands as they cupped his head …
languidly lit it, staining the filter red, then returned to the subject of the gun. cannibal carnality …

"So why do you trust me? You must know how many people want you dead," he said. Once Castro had come, his gasping returning to a slow, steady breath, Michael
immediately withdrew. His taste was in Michael’s mouth, inside him.
"I don’t trust you Castro," Michael smiled, exhaling smoke like some half-dragon
opium-addicted Chinese empress. Michael allowed no sign of his inner turmoil to "Can’t I … " Castro began , reaching forward.
escape him and reach the boy. Inside, he was shuddering like a car pushed beyond
its capacity, out of control, tearing itself apart. He realised with alarm how com- Michael moved away sharply, cutting him off with no more than the shake of his
pletely this boy had burned himself into his awareness; his pronunciations, his move- head. He’d had this boy, now he could forget him, forget the emotional roller coast-
ments, his facial expressions … He’d never experienced anything like this before. er Castro had put him on. He stood and walked towards the door without so much
Internal glaciers were melting, and he was afraid of drowning in the flow. as a backwards glance, while Castro struggled with his buttons and zipper.

116 117
 photos: Martin Parr
courtesy of Martin Parr / Magnum Photos London + Phaidon Press

118
 Jacket Suspending Device Digital Display Controls

85 cm
Clamp

Pressing Unit

Stabilising Legs

35 cm

photos: Simon Leigh · art: Bump

Jon wears suit + shirt by Vivienne Westwood
128
 Optical Viewing Lens

Tray Containing Miniature Map

10 cm
Collapsable Hard Case System

13 cm

Ed wears jacket + trousers by Issey Miyake

 Propelling Blades

Operating Switch
11 cm

13 cm Batteries

Kay wears clothes + shoes by Paul Smith

 1 Metre Measuring Tape

5 cm
Plastic Unit
5 cm
Retrieving Mechanism

Greg wears shirt + trousers + scarf by Paul Smith concept + styling: Greg Stogdon · photo assistant: Kay Wahlig · thanks to Oonagh O’Hagan
 photos: Arnaud Bani

136
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 the vanishing

art: Emmanuelle Antille @ Galerie Zürcher, Paris

144
 This morning my friend Matt Dix, a UN security officer in Dili, East Timor, called
to tell me that he was safe. The UN plane carrying him to Darwin, Australia, for the
weekend, had crash-landed onto foam. He had been sitting near the emergency exit
and had to open the latch. "I’ve always wanted to do that on a commercial plane,"
he said.

"Were you scared?"

"No," he answered. "I knew we had a good pilot, and all our engines were all right."

"You can see pictures on the web," he added helpfully. Speaking to him reminded me
that, in East Timor, I had come to admire the posture and steadiness of the mili-
tary. Soldiers not only learn to skirt around death, they understand that to kill, you
must be trained.

•••

Matt and I had been in East Timor together. We had driven along the shore in Dili
and looked around at the idyllic palm-fringed deserted beaches, taken in spectacu-
lar sunsets shot with indigo and fuchsia, and decided that, despite the fired-up
evening skies, the place was dull. This mission was unique because East Timor,
improbably, and though it will be unfashionable to say it, was the most boring place
we had ever been. We wondered about the island culture we were expecting, the
music, the colours, the weaving and carving. As we slurped bowl after bowl of noo-
dle soup flavoured with monosodium-glutamate, the only ingredient to be found in
the king of lospalos and i abundance, piled high in large baskets at market, we missed the Indonesian food we
words by Zeina B Ghandour had taken for granted whilst in transit in Bali: the coconut milk, the dried chillies,

150 151
 the fresh lemongrass. All organic matter here was sparse and diminutive, from the found ourselves in Situations – he in the capital and I in easternmost Lospalos. Men
bite-size onions to the skin-and-bone chickens. The East Timorese were equally tiny, died at his feet, I mothered the weary and underfed volunteers. Open fire, covert hos-
whatever natural stature dwarfed by expectant fear and inaccessible memories. tility, body bags were flown in from Darwin. By September, we had long stopped
There was something frosty about this place, despite the tropical heat, and a defi- complaining of boredom, and we were reunited in The Compound in Dili, when
nite dampness, despite the fresh sea breeze. Indonesia demonstrated the extent of its vexation with the result of the perfectly con-
ducted poll.
Still, we took solace in the fact that at least we were not volunteers. In May last
year, the Indonesian government signed an agreement with the UN granting it the
authority to implement a Popular Consultation regarding the future of East Timor. In East Timor, I had come to admire the posture and steadiness of the
This was to be the first free election since Indonesia’s occupation of the island in military. Soldiers not only learn to skirt around death, they understand
1975, and I had been hired by the UN as one in a group of electoral experts. While that to kill, you must be trained.
we were getting paid good money for being bored, it was easy to feel sorry for the
UN volunteers, the District Electoral Officers, who were not earning any salary at
all, but a Mission Subsistence Allowance for carrying out the front-line work that As I curled up in the Electoral Section of the UN compound on September 4th and
the UN Assistance Mission in East Timor – UNAMET – takes credit for. Feeling madmen outside lived up to their reputation, Matt was off on the streets doing the
like a taskmaster, I myself deployed fourteen teams into villages, sometimes with security thing. Since the mission was unarmed, his role was limited to monitoring
effective radio communications and sometimes without, accompanied by unarmed and assessment. Even though it was technically a peacekeeping operation,
UN police and terrified local interpreters. I offered emotional support as they con- UNAMET had agreed to its own emasculation: the soldiers were Military Liaison
tracted unfamiliar skin disorders, fetched their own washing water and turned Officers (MLOs), the policemen were Civilian Police (CivPol). Strong and silent
schools and abandoned buildings into registration centres by negotiating with the types were suddenly expected to rely on the gift of the gab as a security manoeuvre.
men with the red bandannas and home-made weapons. I tried to be an inspirational
leader, and watched in amazement as they improvised civic education seminars Too much for me to contemplate, I closed my eyes, and recited names of villages in
whilst shaking off malaria in the middle of nowhere, and persuaded the East my district. Names so warm and creamy they filled my mouth with hot chocolate:
Timorese to come out, register and vote, because UNAMET from now on was in Luro, Bauro, Daudere, Parlamento, Maupitine. I thought back to the windy cliff-top
charge, and would fend off Indonesia. village at Tutuala, the dangerous tide and coral reefs at Lore, the empty yellow
church at Lautem, where I opened my praying eyes to find a woman with knee-
Eventually, the militias got playful and the pace quickened a little. Matt and I both length hair placing flowers by the altar. My favourite excursions out of Lospalos

152 153
 though were the bumpy road to Iliomar and the hidden beach at Com. Com beck- I knew it was not going to be a stroll in the park, but as it marked the end of my
oned us repeatedly like clever advertising, Com again … and we had body surfed the volunteering days, it was worth the risk.
waves, then sunned ourselves naked on tide-naked salt-frosted rocks after they had
retreated. I was drifting dreamily like this with a plastic cup of chamomile tea in my At the beginning, the mood was jubilant amongst staff at the UN headquarters in
hand when I heard the American CivPol being shot in the stomach and simultane- Dili, and I recognised friendly faces from previous assignments, other mission-
ously reporting as much over the Motorola two-way radio. Base was very calm about addicts I had intensely bonded with in Nigeria, Bosnia and Nepal. After I was
it, and took details. For my civilian heart though, it was a jolt, and that day in the processed or what the UN calls "checked-in," I was to be deployed to Lospalos by
Electoral Section, we switched out all the lights in acknowledgement of the siege. chopper. "Come aboard my flying horse!" said the burly Australian pilot who was fly-
Defiantly, music was played and dances were danced in an unconvincing mock insou- ing me down. When I hesitated, he brandished the rose-quartz crystal hanging on a
ciance. Cigarettes were lit and stories exchanged, of worse missions, of really hairy pendant around his neck. From the sky I gazed in disbelief at emerald shores, indi-
evacuations, of close encounters in Chile, Angola and Cambodia. The sound of auto- go pools, silver sands and narrow roads carved into mountainous canopies. After this
matic gunfire outside brought back Beirut. The next day, a child was chopped into masterful seduction, my bags and I were thrown off the aircraft unceremoniously in
pieces a few yards outside the compound. I felt each vertebra fall out of line with my the middle of a field, and I looked around for a welcoming committee. My heart sank
spine and the pigment drain from my hair. It was like a surge of vertigo and ener- as I saw the dilapidated town nestled in hilly jungle foliage. I am flat-footed, suited
gy all at once. to the plains, and mountains obstruct my view. It sank further when I met my col-
leagues: it was early days and the whole team wasn’t on the ground, but at this stage,
Had we all been slow on the uptake? it was all-male. Soldiers, spies, policemen and bureaucrats. "This is like the Foreign
Legion," they told me when I asked them about home. "We come here to forget."

Mission junkies The rainy season hadn’t left Lospalos, and night after night, it poured down in tor-
rents. I tossed around sleeplessly on red nylon sheets, distracted by the sounds of
A lifetime away, in the summer of last year, I accepted the post of Deputy Regional scurrying reptiles and pests, listening to the whisky-soaked banter of the
Co-ordinator in East Timor because I liked the way it sounded. I called everyone and Legionnaires I lived with. I waited patiently for some female company to turn up,
squealed: "I’mdeputyregionalcoordinator, deputyregionalcoordinator!" My flat- and it did. When there were enough of us, we rented a large, circular house that had
mates, avid news-watchers, said the obvious. "You should read the papers, don’t you been painted blue on the inside and out. It seemed it had been built in the garden of
realise what’s going down over there?" What was going down "over there" was beside a cemetery, there were wild pigs and a horse in the front and ducks and dogs in the
the point. I had been to a lot of places, and there were plenty more I wanted to see. back. Most luxuriously for us dilettantes masquerading as international peacekeep-

154 155
 ers, it had running water and a contraption we agreed was a shower. It was perfect, accomplishments, while uniformly cold-shouldering their many advances. Inside the
and in no time at all, it became known as the Hen House. For a Hen House on the other hand, we were lush. Men bore gifts and favours. Fresh flow-
ers, eggs, gin, magazines and pink bananas, luxuries and laughs were as scarce as
Cigarettes were lit and stories exchanged, of worse missions, of really each other, and we milked all situations for both. When we were by ourselves, we
hairy evacuations, of close encounters in Chile, Angola and Cambodia. expressed vulnerabilities. We often cried with hunger and exhaustion, or at the
The sound of automatic gunfire outside brought back Beirut. prospect of another cold shower on our clammy skin. One night I woke up scream-
ing, convinced that either a rat or a snake had got a grip on my hands and neck. I
while there I found happiness with the girls: Ester, Billie-Jean, Kemi, Rebecca, Suki jumped out of bed still screaming until Billie Jean and Rebecca came running down
and Mariola. We even hired a housekeeper as stubborn and bitchy as us, a wily sin- the corridor.
gle mother who sulked, locked the kitchen whenever she felt like it and disappeared
with the key, overcharged us for groceries and refused to do any cleaning which "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," said Rebecca.
involved water. We breakfasted merrily on rancid peanut butter and bread with ants,
made delicious Timorese coffee at 5am, and raided the forbidden Australian Army Whatever malevolent spirit had visited me in my sleep left plump, blue marks on my
ration packs for the M&Ms and Anzac biscuits. Non-smokers and non-drinkers took hands and neck like the Devil’s kisses. After that we made one of our colleagues, a
up smoking and beer. soldier and member of the Royal Danish Air Force and Military Police, sleep on the
couch for several nights, making sure he took off his boots.
"Something about the Third World makes me wanna smoke," drawled Billie-Jean,
an intensive care nurse and lawyer. Mariola had left an unruly husband behind with
the words: "This time, I will be back, but see how you like living without me." Kemi, The karaoke district
the doctor, sang and acted like a diva. She was Born Again, and spontaneously treat-
ed us to her favourite hymns. She sang in surgery, on the porch, before breakfast One evening, all of us accepted an invitation to karaoke with the Indonesian police,
and before bed. "Oooh Zeina," she would purr, "your voice is so sweet over the radio and Lospalos became known as the Karaoke District in the UN headquarters in Dili.
I could lick it." Compared to the western part of the country, we were breezing through the regis-
tration period, enjoying a co-operative relationship with commanders and henchmen,
Outside, we negotiated with militias and their leaders, we were dry-eyed in a terri- laughing, although the stress was beginning to show, all the way to the poll. Still,
tory whose atmosphere and bleakness was making solid men collapse. We struggled lest we forget that this was Indonesia we were dealing with, our Daily Incident
for the respect of our male colleagues, careful not to upstage them with our daily Reports recorded increasing violence and intimidation. Local staff who received per-

156 157
 sonalised messages and home visits from the long-haired boys – paramilitary out- was framed by his own pack of wolves, a group of sombre men in dark clothes, since
laws in flared faded jeans – took to sleeping in the regional office. But it wasn’t until one of their own had just met a horrible death. This was La Cosa Nostra broadcast
the Liurai, the traditional leader known as "the King of Lospalos" was hacked down live from the tropics. We sat, making nice on his verandah, and expressed our con-
at the knees then slit down the middle two days before polling that the Karaoke cern that polling day passes without any further disturbances. The Bupati spoke with
District was truly shaken up. You could gather up the fear and mould it into bricks calculated pauses. "We were family," his voice was raspy and low, "I’m very sorry for
and build houses with it. The Karaoke District had finally got in gear with the rest what happened" – it made me want to jump inside his throat – "it was unfortunate."
of the country and our local staff were going to pieces. A collective memory had been He wore gold jewellery and a cream safari-suit on skin the colour of burnt sugar.
disturbed. East Timorese don’t have to imagine horror, they have to try and forget My eyes started to sweep over his forearm, back and forth like a soft broom on cool
it. People started talking in tongues. "His spirit will surprise us," one of our inter- tiles. I was looking for something that would repel, remind me. I rested in the crease
preters said to me. I had no idea what he meant. around his elbow. The more I looked, the more mesmerised I became, now seeking
the inside of his hands, the milk coffee palms as he spoke about his regret over the
There was a full moon the next night, red and heavy in the sky, fat with the Liurai’s King’s death, gently drawing us into the wider picture. The lion was rumbling, he
blood. For a reason best known to himself, Adrian, the Co-ordinator to the Deputy, was talking up a storm but I didn’t hear. Inside they were setting the table for din-
a heel-clicking ex-marine three years my junior, decided we had to meet with the ner and I glimpsed the flowery hem of a woman’s skirt behind the sliding glass doors.
man who had ordered the killing. Adrian was a perfectly formed sample specimen The domestic activity was transfixing my attention. I wanted to inhabit and see the
of the UN electoral breed, and carried on his person at all times a Starbucks cup whole of him. As we left, he patted my hand like an indulgent uncle.
and flask. I used to protest at his excessive reliance on figures and statistics, and
reminded him he was executing a participatory Popular Consultation – not an offen-
sive in a Third World War. "There are some things, Adrian, that you just cannot The Liurai’s wife arrived to vote with an entourage of women. Her eyes
express in a chart." This was the wrong thing to say, and confused him. Adrian gen- seemed to have darkened and dilated overnight, her bones sliced fis-
uinely loved the world of international espionage, in which he saw himself as a cru- sures of pain and shock into her face.
cial player. "Get in the Jeep," he said to me even though it was well past sunset,
"we’re going to visit the Bupati."
When I went home, Billie Jean was pacing the living room, fuming. "How could you?
The Bupati was the official head of our district and the unofficial head of the mili- That bastard! How could you go to his house?" I shrugged as if to say, "Business as
tias. He had bushy hair and a slow manner. He looked at Adrian like a sleepy lion usual, Billie-Jean," and went to bed dreaming of a militia leader with very soft
as if to say, "You don’t hunt in my town, big dog." When we arrived at his house he hands. I wondered if it was my fear of him that attracted me or my attraction to

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 him that frightened me, and I knew it was time to leave Lospalos for my perception
had become skewed. •••

It was around that time that things went pear-shaped, and more people got away In Dili, hotels were all full with newly arrived journalists, and I went knocking at
with murder. Polling day passed peacefully, and old women donned their Sunday Matt’s door. "Is there room at the inn?"
best for the occasion, wearing carved silver bracelets all along their arms and gold
coins in their hair. I drove round the polling centres of our district, responding to We spent the next couple of days before the announcement of the result storing up
urgent radio requests for extra batteries, ink and other materials. The Liurai’s wife on groceries and water, driving around an increasingly overcast Dili to the sounds of
arrived to vote with an entourage of women as beautiful as she, all dressed in starchy Bob Marley and Whitney Houston. As storm clouds gathered, Matt had his hair cut
European black from head to toe. Their hair, as is the custom for mourning women, to take the edge off his disquietude, and I packed a bag of essentials in case of evac-
was wrapped in triangular black kerchiefs. I approached the King’s wife and said a uation: my seashells, my diary, my photographs, new sarongs, cash.
clumsy hello. She and the King had given me a tortoiseshell bracelet when I visited
their restaurant for lunch one day, and I was wearing it. She looked right through In the event, I was indeed evacuated. I found myself in Darwin sharing living quar-
me. Her eyes seemed to have darkened and dilated overnight, her bones sliced fis- ters with Legionnaires once more. These forward-looking chaps were contemplating
sures of pain and shock into her face. the next mission. Would it be Kosovo, where the who’s who of peacekeeping could
be found, or Western Sahara, which lacking atrocities, was maybe a little dull? I
Soon after polling, the mission was interrupted, regional offices were evacuated or hoped Matt would turn up so that I had something palpable to say goodbye to. He
closed and UNAMET centralised in the capital for the announcement of the result. didn’t. Instead, the night before I left Darwin, a large scorpion crawled out of one
I drove back from Lospalos in a hallucinatory daze, imagining crocodiles along the of the seashells I had wistfully fished out from my bag, trying to recapture Com and
road and summer snowflakes against the windscreen. In the car, Adrian donated his a gone eternity. The dozens of eggs it had laid were hatching, and I ran them all
Starbucks cup to Joao, our interpreter, because he was sure that Joao would never under boiling water.
want to forget him. Joao, whose sense of irony was subtler than Adrian ever gave
him credit for, took the gesture to another level. He thanked Adrian profusely, and
said that that cup would be the cup that would resolve conflict in his home, that Zeina B Ghandour’s first novel,The Honey, is published by Quartet.
whenever there was an important discussion, the cup would come, too, and every dis-
cussion amongst his family would begin with a reference to UNAMET, because we
had liberated East Timor.

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 audio portraits

photos: Stephen Gill

Back to the 60’s
162
Love Me Tender, Elvis Presley Pretty Fly for a White Guy, Offspring
The Beatles, Revolver Capital Radio, 95.8 FM
Hebrew Slave Song, Verdi Boyzone
Oasis, What’s the Story Heart FM
Michael Jackson, Bad Gold FM
 La Fille Penchée

photos: Thierry Van Biesen

174
previous page · shirt + skirt by Alexandre Herchcovitch · wooden bag by Cho Cho · this page · top + skirt + top + skirt by Keupr/van Bentm · shoes by Benoît Méléard · bracelet + rings by Delphine Charlotte Parmentier
shoes by Martine Sitbon · bracelet by Delphine Charlotte Parmentier · orange purse by Antoni + Alison
yellow kinetic dress + pop socks + sandals by Issey Miyake left to right · blue shirt by Aziz · pink embroidered trousers by Keupr/van Bentm · shoes by Clarks · shirt + skirt
+ shoes by Lagerfeld Gallery
left to right · pink dress + sandals by Isabelle Ballu · bag by Babe · shirt + trousers by Kostas Murkudis left to right · dress by Junya Watanabe · shoes by Benoît Méléard · jacket by Kostas Murkudis · trousers by
shoes by Clarks Aziz · shoes by Clarks
 styling: Marianne Ghantous
hair: Juan-Carlos @ Terry Manduca
make-up: Polly Osmond @ Debbie Walters
models: Lydia K + Jesse Wade @ Select
photo assistants: Elise Dumontet + Oliver

left to right · jacket + trousers by Masakï Matsushïma · shoes by Clarks · top by Masakï Matsushïma · skirt by
Roland Mouret · hair bag by Alain Pichon for Roland Mouret · shoes by Manolo Blahnik for Clements Ribeiro
 photos: Gyslain Yarhi @ Art Jam

184
previous page · shorts by Christian Dior · this page · belt by Chanel haute couture · boots by Sartore stocking by Gerbe · bracelet by Eric Halley
 styling: Virginie Dhello · make-up: Isabelle Jonieaux @ Corps et Ame
hair: Philipinne Cardan @ Sybille Kleber · model: Milena @ Nathalie

suspender by Martin Margiela · necklace by Dior jewellery string by Antik Batik · ring by Chanel jewellery
 charlie

photos: Thomas Brun · stylist: Lena Ulven

eye shadow by Christian Dior · powder by Clarins

190
eye shadow by Christian Dior rouge + eye shadow by Christian Dior
fox fur by Dukkehjem, Oslo
 llama project

art: Jean-Pierre Khazem @ Galerie Emmanuel Perrotin · Paris

198
 “I have walked out of this tower block, feeling heavily intimidated by things going
on in the lift. On one occasion I met half-a-dozen young guys in their early twenties
– all obviously out of their heads at two o’clock in the afternoon – and I was aware
that the slightest thing could trigger something off.” Dave Wright, six-foot four,
wearing his hair short like a skinhead’s, doesn’t frighten easily. I’ve know him for
the lost war
nearly twenty years. He played keyboards in a Birmingham band in 1980. I had just
arrived from New York City’s Lower East Side, where crack and heroin were
endemic. I told the drug stories then; about dealers who set up shop in a corner skip
or the shooting galleries in the abandoned buildings.

After Wright left pop music and started working in drug rehabilitation – currently
he is one of the first drug counsellors assigned to juvenile courts in the UK – our
positions reversed. Now, he tells the stories about the availability of cheap drugs and
manipulative dealers, just like New York used to be. The lives of juvenile drug
addicts are not dramatic; they shoot up or smoke, some die. However, while gov-
ernment policies are intent on securing Middle England votes by targeting soft drugs
like marijuana and ecstacy, teenage junkies are losing their lives because of the
Government’s disinformation.

In Britain, heroin use is on the increase. If availability is the barometer of addiction,

additional supplies have been in part distributed by displaced Albanians fleeing
Kosovo. According to the German Federal police, Kosovar Albanians import eighty
per cent of Europe’s heroin. For a long time, they have been at the heart of the
European drug trade, and in Britain, augment an already reliable network from the
sub-continent. Heroin has finally moved out of the housing estates, Yorkshire min-
ing towns and Scottish fishing villages into the rest of the country. In the shadow of
words by Malu Halasa
Westminster, used needles are strewn on the streets of Covent Garden, crackheads

208 209
 smoke openly in Soho Square and drug addicts shoot each other up in broad day- cessing was once a burgeoning cottage industry, stretch mile after mile of low-
light in the alleys off Tottenham Court Road. Recently behind the Strand, a home- income housing estates, where juvenile drug dealing isn’t a trend. In the last three
less girl threw bleach over her homeless boyfriend. The violence and the vehemence years, it’s one of the fastest growing industries in the Midlands, with a turnover that
mean one thing: junkie business. exceeds Leyland Longbridge.

According to a recent Manchester University study for DrugScope, not-so-mean Wright has parked in the shadow of two tower blocks, which have been the object
streets are now awash with drugs. In smaller cities and towns previously untouched of on-going police operations for drugs and firearms. These blocks feature heavily in
by heroin addiction, between five per cent and twenty per cent of the fifteen-year- Wright’s stories, and demonstrate that in the very places where the Government and
olds in the study’s sample had been offered heroin. The majority of whom came from police have spent most of their time and effort to get rid of drugs, they have failed
comfortable, middle-class families. If quaint market towns like Lemington Spa are miserably.
affected, deprivation and drug taking have dropped to new lows in a metropolitan
borough like Sandwell, where Wright works. Sixteen-year old Alan – all names have been changed – lived in one of the tower
blocks and initially phoned Wright at the urging of his mother. Alan has been inject-
ing amphetamine since he was fourteen, a habit he had been introduced to by his
In Britain, heroin use is on the increase. Additional supplies have been in stepfather, a man who burnt down the family flat. Alan, to support his drug habit,
part distributed by Albanians fleeing Kosovo. According to the German committed a burglary nearly once a day and became a police statistic. UK drug
Federal police, Kosovar Albanians import eighty per cent of Europe’s addicts – numbering between 100,000 and 200,000 – are responsible for crime
heroin. For a long time they have been at the heart of the European amounting to an estimated £4 billion per year. He had also been involved in a vicious
drug trade, and in Britain, augment an already reliable network from group assault.
the sub-continent.
Wright explains, “People don’t respect the power of the drugs they use and some-
where in there is the fact they have no self-respect. So they don’t actually respect
Sandwell is the third most depressed area outside of London. In row after row of anything. They don’t respect their parents and neighbours who they rob from. The
terraced housing, it is unusual to find an adult in a full-time job. The borough also number of crimes I hear of where the victim is a relative of, a friend of the perpe-
has the lowest educational attainment nationally. Kids survive on crisps, sweets and trator – this is terribly sorry stuff.”
fags, according to a health report. Between towns like West Bromwich, where there
is a growing and persistent heroin problem, and Smethwick, in which crack pro- His initial visits to Alan’s home were unsuccessful. Either the boy was “out of his

210 211
 face on speed” or simply not there. He had already been arrested several times, and can one hour counselling do once a week?”
was waiting for a court appearance, which he missed because he was, in his own
words, “too paranoid”.
In the shadow of Westminster, used needles are strewn on the streets
Finally Alan was caught. On remand in Brinsford Young Offenders’ Institute in of Covent Garden, crackheads smoke openly in Soho Square and drug
Wolverhampton, he told Wright that sometimes after a robbery he was so keen to addicts shoot each other up in broad daylight in the alleys around
buy amphetamines that he spent all the money on taxi fares locating a dealer and Tottenham Court Road. Recently behind the Strand, a homeless girl
had to rob again to pay for the drugs. threw bleach over her homeless boyfriend. The violence and the vehe-
mence mean one thing: junkie business.
In all likelihood the boy faced a custodial sentence. So Wright found the only treat-
ment centre that deals with similarly aged youngsters, a highly staffed facility in
Lincolnshire. Instead, the judge wanted to send Alan there for three months proba- He answers the question, as if I’m not there.“When I go to a visit, if there’s any-
tion, but first funding had to be guaranteed by the local authority, which had already thing that is said that seems to have a positive angle on it – like going to the doc-
rejected numerous requests. After a series of dramatic phone calls from the court tor’s when no one is registered at the doctor’s – I’m going to try and encourage them
room, money was miraculously found, and Alan went into the programme. Three to do that. If I can get involved, I am going to do that as well. But what I’m actu-
months later, he left clean and moved in with his mother who had moved to anoth- ally thinking when I leave sometimes: there is no way I could live here and not be
er tower block. Although she didn’t allow drug users past her front door, they still either drinking or on some kind of drugs, prescribed or otherwise because it is some
slept outside in the hallway. Meanwhile, Alan started frequenting his old haunts. kind of hell.”
Eventually, he confessed to Wright: “Within 48 hours of coming out, a friend inject-
ed in front of me and the temptation was too great.” •••

Outside the tower blocks on a sunny, Black Country afternoon, kids play on the slide Wright has an office at the Sandwell Authority’s Youth Justice Unit, but he prefers
and climbing frame. A merrily twinkling tune from the ice-cream van adds to the working at the local community drug programme, the Anchor Project, located in a
scene of childhood innocence. A father and his family stroll past Wright’s car, peer- house off a side street in the former manufacturing town of West Bromwich.
ing inside. Wright, in a short-sleeved blue shirt and short hair, could have been a Treatment for drug addiction is a relatively unknown science. Acupuncture has been
dole officer or security guard. He hardly notices them. During Alan’s tale of woe, used to mollify the physical symptoms of heroin withdrawal, and sometimes a drug
Wright’s voice was sometimes raised in anguish; it is now low and resigned. “What regime – a combination muscle relaxant, tranquilliser and sleeping pill – is pre-

212 213
 scribed. Wright avoids recommending Methadone, and the teenagers don’t want it, lence. Like trainers, drugs are part of a consumer street culture.
either. They already know it is harder to kick than heroin and not as pleasant. On
the whole, street drug culture is elastic and irrational. Wright’s clients may have “Drugs can give the illusion that you have it all,” he continues, “The crack user has
received the Government’s message – E is unsafe – but they also have considerable some understanding that his high is only going to last fifteen minutes but their gen-
difficulty telling the difference between powdered brown heroin and crushed uine perceptions of their life and what the future holds for them are so low, that ten
cannabis. And while they might also be suspicious of injecting heroin because of minutes of feeling powerful is just wonderful. It’s not really surprising that what
AIDs, they still think smoking the drug is “all right”. makes you feel powerful even for a few minutes should appeal to the powerless.”

“It’s surprising to find that heroin smokers regard heroin injectors as the lowest of The next week Wright saw the raisin’ kid dealing on the corner. The week after that
the low, and continue to do so until the day they first inject.” Wright describes a he was in jail.
group of kids who contribute a tenner each and purchase a quantity of crack on
Friday nights. If they buy a hundred’s worth, the dealer gives them a few free bags •••
of heroin – his version of a loyalty card. No surprise, several weeks later the kids are
addicted. Two years ago, at a Downing Street reception to launch New Labour’s ten-year
strategic plan, Tackling Drugs to Build a Better Britain, Wright watched the invi-
Within walking distance from the Anchor Project is the main shopping precinct. tation-only audience of policemen and drug rehab professionals crowd around Tony
Past the drunks, by the public pay phones, a well dressed group of black and mixed and Cherie Blair and ask for autographs. “Just like pop stars,” Wright recalls.
race kids wait. The more experienced dealers no longer stand outside; they take their
clients’ orders over mobile phones. In a nearby pub, heroin can be ordered. The out- He had been invited to represent drug counsellors from the West Midlands.
door market is a convenient pick-up and drop-off point, camouflaged between the Continuing with the previous government’s drug policy, Labour has acted in a
red and white striped awning.

At a young offenders’ group Wright made the acquaintance of a lad who gave him “I was talking to a couple of Bangladeshi young men. They don’t use
an impromptu lesson in street slang. “’Raisin’ is like ‘taxin’,” explains Wright. alcohol because it can be detected on the breath. They will use a little
“Two lads meet a third in a subway and threaten him until he hands over his train- cannabis and amphetamine. They are walking in Wednesbury, where
ers. People who mug others are doing nothing more than just ‘raising’ or collecting the KKK allegedly have their national headquarters. In this context,
‘street tax’.” For Wright, the innocuousness of the slang belies the potential vio- they say they need a little confidence.”

214 215
 predictable manner. Blair’s drug tzar Keith Hellawell, once a vocal advocate of ficking trade. While Colombians face an escalation in the fighting and possible civil
cannabis legalisation, was trotted out to rebuke the two-and-a half years in the war, in the rest of the world heroin becomes the market leader.
making Police Foundation report that called for the easing of drug laws: the lifting
of the threat of imprisonment faced, for example, 78,000 people in 1997, for pos- If there was a war against drugs, it was lost long ago. Wright’s front-line work has
sessing cannabis, ecstasy and LSD, and for a cut in prison sentences for heroin and made him pragmatic. “It depends on what you mean by success. If you mean that
cocaine possession from a maximum of seven years to twelve months. Hellawell person will become completely drug free, then I think the chances of that happening
called the independent Foundation recommendations nothing more than “a slap on is almost nil. If you talk about people who are maybe cannabis smokers, but whose
the wrist.” friends are already dabbling in heroin use, if you can support them and still they
haven’t started smoking heroin yet, but might be smoking cannabis everyday, I
Lady Runciman, chair of the Police Foundation, was more honest in her assessment, regard that as being something of a success. If you can make someone aware that
and has said, “When young people know that the advice they are given is either the manner in which they are inhaling solvents is potentially fatal, you may not stop
exaggerated or untrue in relation to less harmful drugs, there is a real risk they will them from using solvents, but if you can stop them using that particular way of inhal-
discount everything else they are told about the most hazardous drugs, including ing them, then they are not going to kill themselves or it’s very unlikely they would.
heroin and cocaine.” That’s some sort of success. It is very much a sliding scale.”

On a practical level, Wright strongly supports the Government’s “fast track”, which
Wright watched the invitation-only audience of policemen and drug reduced the time between addicts being charged and sentenced. In bail hostels where
rehab professionals crowd around Tony and Cherie Blair and ask for heroin smokers become injectors, novices can leave with heavy habits.
autographs. “Just like pop stars.”
Almost as worse is institutionalised limbo. Kevin, sixteen, was arrested with twen-
ty-three half-gram bags of heroin. Injecting since he was fourteen, it appeared he
Unrealistically, the government would like everyone to just “Say No”, a cynical pol- was funding his habit by running for drug dealers. As an orphan, he has a history of
icy promoted by Nancy Reagan during the 1980s, the same years the Nicaraguan self-harm. Recently someone committed suicide by jumping off the roof of his tower
Contras flooded the U.S. with cocaine to pay for arms. Under Clinton, another cyn- block, a sheltered accommodation, where a counsellor works during the day and
ical foreign policy has been costing lives. In a relatively “drug free” America, this where Kevin has his heroin delivered in the afternoon and night.
time the lost lives are in Columbia, where the rightwing paramilitaries, financed by
the U.S., are fighting communist guerrillas for control of the lucrative cocaine-traf- Charged with intent to supply, among his other charges, Kevin was originally due to

216 217
 be sentenced, but because of various appointments for psychiatric tests and other hell” but he might also learn there could be no second or third chances if he didn’t
delays, five months passed before he was referred to the local community drug team first help himself.
to assess whether he should go into rehabilitation.
•••
For rehab to work, Wright insists, three things must be in place: Kevin must
acknowledge his problem, believe in the support that will help him and, thirdly, take In Sandwell drug abuse is difficult to quantify; is there more heroin in circulation,
small, measurable steps on the endless road to recovery. But before any of this can or are there simply more heroin addicts in trouble? After an interview with the
happen he must properly detox. superintendent in the West Bromwich police station who calls the borough “poor”,
a PC giving me a lift to another police station describes an incident from the previ-
Kevin failed at the first hurdle by not picking up his Methadone script. He had pre- ous night. A black family complained about drug dealing in front of their house. The
viously belonged to another Methadone programme in Birmingham, tested positive arriving officer was assaulted by teenage Yemeni drug dealers. Even as new immi-
for heroin, but never had his Methadone cut off. Wright warned him it would be dif- grants to the UK, they already knew the difference between a fast buck and a dole
ferent at the Anchor Project. queue.

The choices that faced the sixteen-year-old were stark: either clean himself up and Smethwick is the police station responsible for southern Sandwell, home to many of
use Methadone instead of heroin, or go to jail and end up going cold turkey in a Wright’s clients living in the tower blocks. In a crowded waiting room, a white mid-
prison hospital. When Wright told Kevin it was obvious that he was running drugs dle-aged woman loudly expresses her fears to a sergeant behind the counter. “They”
again to support his heroin habit, he only smiled. were coming back and “they” were going to kick down her front door. She has a
baby in a pushchair and a blank-faced, teenage girl inured to violence.
Wright explains,“One of the problems we have with working with clients like this,
is in an agency sense, we say, ‘they are chaotic drug users.’ Once we get to know Detective Inspector John Larkin runs the police operations in the tower blocks. Did
them as individuals we say, ‘they are not motivated; they are not committed to this the amounts the police had recovered indicate a community in crisis? He is non-
recovery programme, therefore we can’t help them.’ I try hard not to believe in the committal, more drug busts could mean that the local police were better informed.
‘nothing works philosophy’. Everybody deserves the chance of having some kind of Our interview is cut short by a telephone call. The body of a man in Dudley has been
treatment, but mixed messages are especially dangerous for teenagers.” found.

When his Methadone script is stopped Kevin will, Wright expects, cause “merry “The police have a difficult job, but we know if you take out two heroin dealers in

218 219
 the community, not only do you have a queue of people waiting to take their place, The boy answers all their questions, nervously. Everyone in his family has gone to
but we also see people partaking in a chaotic use of alcohol, prescribed drugs such jail, except for two aunties. After several more questions and the boy’s quiet
as benzodiazepines” – a drug group that includes minor tranquillisers like Valium answers, the magistrates fine him £100, or £2 for fifty weeks – a small fortune to
and Temazepan – “and this could arguably be doing more damage. We see an a family who gets £50 a week from Social Services – along with eighteen hours of
increase in male violence. We have social policies that undermine each rather than community service. On leaving the courtroom, his white mother who bursts into tears
working together.” Ken Stringer is the Drug Strategy Coordinator for the Sandwell is consoled by her Jamaican, half-sister. Outside, Wright and the lad – a skinhead
Health Authority. and a mixed race kid with braids – walk confidently ahead, deep in conversation.
The war may be lost, but a few old soldiers, the lucky ones, will live to tell the tale.
He adds, “I was talking to a couple of Bangladeshi young men. They don’t use alco-
hol because it can be detected on the breath. They will use a little cannabis and
amphetamine. They are walking in Wednesbury where the KKK allegedly have their
national headquarters. In this context, they say they need a little confidence.”

Meanwhile, back at the Anchor Project, Wright has been stood up by a fourteen-
year-old girl expelled from school for possessing a gram-and-a-half of cannabis. She
appears to come from a family with a history of abuse – her father is a Falklands
War veteran. Wright will catch up with her later. He’s expected at Warley Youth
Court, where another of his clients is in the dock.

Since the time of writing, Alan is serving a four-year sentence in Aylesbury Young Offenders’ Institute.
In court, Wright explains to the three magistrates that the seventeen-year-old lad Both his brother and sister have become heavy heroin users. Kevin was serving the first year of a cus-
who had been addicted to cannabis and committed robberies, has made good todial, two-year sentence when he decided not to go into drug rehabilitation. Four days after he was
released from prison, he appeared at the Anchor Project with burns on his face and hands, oblivious of
progress the last six months. Despite his heroin-smoking mates, the lad goes to col-
his injuries and obviously back on heroin. He told Wright that he had made a terrible mistake and
lege for hairdressing and, on some days, doesn’t smoke a joint. eventually was able to get accepted into a rehab programme, from which he was thrown out after two
or three months for drug usage. Immediately afterwards, he continued his heroin habit, then decided
to try and clean himself up yet again. With help from Wright and his probation officer, Kevin went into
The magistrates begin cross-examining the young man. Does he understand the grav- the same rehab programme, where he is currently clean. Wright foresees problems after Kevin’s release
ity of the situation? Does he realise how close he is to going to prison? and he returns to a neighbourhood, where all his friends are drug addicts.

220 221
 art: David Thorpe @ Maureen Paley · Interim art

222
 art: Dan Hays @ Entwistle

228
 photos: Peter Benson fear of flying

232
234 235
236 237
238 239
 running project

art: Per Hüttner · words by Claire Canning

240
Marathon man, “chemist of the will”1, can he convert pain into knowledge? human bellies and fissured walls?
“What can a man do? … fight everything – except the suffering of his body … to
suffer is to give supreme attention to something, and [he is] somewhat a man of Does the world become too much for him in his own private progress? He is, after
attention.”2 all, trapped within this cortex of flesh. His fatigue, heart rate, and body's natural
rhythms eliminate all incentives. His nerve endings flicker and tremble and he can-
Is he Demeter, travelling the far corners of the earth, seeking the cultivated land? not shrink from their incessant orchestration.
Has he taken this ineluctable route in his pursuit of it, following its vapour trail as
it is absorbed into this volume of bodies and objects, where it hides in a labyrinth of In China, a white tiger guards his lungs. With each breath, he calls upon divinities
to descend upon the earthly spirits
rattling within his rib cage. His
limbs are dreams (around one wrist
is an amulet which communicates
the first impulse of his heart).

In the twilight, he runs between the

feet and elbows of traders. Bodies
shift and stir before him, their
ephemeral movements and flicker-
ing attitudes creating a thousand
illusory transformations. Oblivious,
their gestures cast spectres of them-
selves, as, behind walls, mecha-
nisms and organisms map out their
deaths.

Now, as if by a flowing current

reaching each leg and hand simulta-
neously, he moves westward once
more, bound in reciprocal selection
to his environment.

1Ribot, The Diseases of the Personality (Chicago, 1891).

2Paul Valéry “Album de Monsieur Teste” (Paris,
Bibliotheque nationale).
 photos: Cleo Sullivan @ Betty Wilson

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previous page · tank top + long-sleeved top by Helmut Lang · skirt by Yves Saint Laurent
this page · dress by Alexandre Herchcovitch · neck ruff by Brian Wolk’s Ruffian
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 shoulder bags by AsFour
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props: Caramel Jones · model: Veruschka @ Women Management
 Fear of the future is nothing new to Theodore Zeldin, the author of the cult best-sell-
er An Intimate History of Humanity , a radical reworking of history that inspired a
talking in the age of
fanatical following amongst its readers. Dr Zeldin, a French historian from St.
intelligent machines
Anthony’s College in Oxford, takes a cross disciplinary view of the past, drawing on
sociology, psychoanalysis, as well as raw emotion. People may have thought “love
is all around”, but for Dr Zeldin, love, like technology, has a history of development,
acceptance and damage limitation. His analysis is both unusual and memorable; his
assertions and one-liners have resonance – a modern day Confucius. As he explains
in the book’s preface, “I am writing about what will not lie still, about the past which
is alive in people’s minds today.”

Currently in the forefront of people’s minds are the rapid changes taking place in
technology. Although this is not at the heart of Dr Zeldin’s follow-up book,
Conversations, the problem of dealing with the onslaught of the technological age is
very much in line with Dr Zeldin’s uncomplicated, but powerful premise that: chang-
ing the world can begin with something as simple as a discussion between two
strangers. This idea might seem age old rather than spanking new age. Yet, Dr Bill
Joy whose essay in the April Wired, “Why the Future Doesn’t Need Us” with its
speculations about a dark future of hostile robots is calling for exactly the kind of
in-depth conversations that Dr Zeldin champions.

Bill Joy’s essay was considered so controversial that the White House asked for a
copy before its publication. As the co-founder and chief scientist at Sun
Microsystems in Silicon Valley who participated in the creation of Unix utilities and
in the advanced microprocessor and internet technologies such as Java and Jini, Joy
belongs to a small coterie of scientists who are inventing, some maintain, the nuts
conversation + paintings by Theodore Zeldin
and bolts of Artificial Intelligence. Forty or fifty years before a race of super robots

258 259
 turn humans into pack animals or nano-probes run riot over a world disfigured by
genetic engineering, Joy questions the ascendency of machines, in his Wired article.
“I think it is no exaggeration to say we are on the cusp of the further perfection of
extreme evil, an evil whose possibility spreads well beyond that which weapons of
mass destruction bequeathed to the nation-states on to a surprising and terrible
empowerment of extreme individuals.”

It is an argument which suggests to Dr Zeldin that Joy is mired in twentieth centu-

ry thinking, not twenty-first. To glimpse the future, whether robotic, human or fish,
Dr Zeldin sat down with Tank.

“History is full of fears about what will happen in the future, fear that
every decision may not turn out well. That is how civilisations have
been built, on the basis of fear. Civilisations grow and are accepted
because they promise to abolish fear.”

Theodore Zeldin: “I was very impressed by Joy as a person of high intelligence who
has achieved great things in his life and is now asking himself profound questions
about its meaning: ‘What have I done and what am I doing?’ It is as poignant as
Mozart at the height of his powers saying that the purpose of life is death. But Joy
has only the beginning of an answer: he says what he needs is to have larger dis-
cussions with people whom he doesn’t normally meet. That is an interesting com-
mentary about the network he is creating. It is in an incomplete network. It is not
functioning as he would like it to function.”

portrait: Kay Wahlig

260
 Tank: “Interestingly, in the computer world Joy has been very successful with his “What comes out of Joy’s essay, most interestingly, is fear. He is fearful of the mis-
technological networking systems. Yet in the essay, he partly complains about his application of his achievements. He’s fearful about the direction in which humans
difficulties in finding a viable human network.” are heading, fearful that they will repeat the stupidities of the past, and his exper-
tise does not give him a method of coping with those fears. His essay reveals a ten-
Theodore Zeldin: “Then the question arises, what are they going to talk about? This dency often found in people who are innovators in a particular field. For the rest of
is what is missing from networks. There is still a long way to go in giving them the their philosophy, beyond the area in which they are adventurous pioneers, they fall
aesthetic and ethical value they could potentially create. So it is excellent to read back on traditional ways of thinking. Joy resurrects the apocalyptic attitude, which
somebody of Joy’s standing becoming aware that he must add something to his tech- is very ancient, fear that the worst will happen. Can one get out of that kind of think-
nology, if he is to be fully satisfied. Futuristic dreams, either utopian or dystopian, ing? I think one can.”
in which hunger is abolished and everything is renewed by obedient robots, are not
enough. Because how will it be decided what the robots do?” Tank: “Why does this particular fear keep recurring throughout history?”

Tank: “In Intimate History, you wrote that Thomas Kuhn ‘has shown how most sci- Theodore Zeldin: “History is full of fears about what will happen in the future, fear
entists work to reinforce the systems of thought, which dominate their epoch, how that every decision may not turn out well. That is how civilisations have been built,
they make new facts fit into these systems or “paradigms” or cobwebs, which on the basis of fear. Civilisations grow and are accepted because they promise to
usually take centuries to collapse.’” abolish fear. They say, ‘Look, the world is terrible, I will protect you. Why don’t you
obey me?’ And they get obedience by raising up new fears.”
Theodore Zeldin: “This is one of the inevitable consequences of the high degree of
specialisation needed in order to achieve this kind of construction. To escape from Tank: “So we give up our civil liberties in order to feel secure.”
one’s specialisation into a broader vision of life and purpose, is the next, elusive
goal.” Theodore Zeldin: “We give up a lot.”

Tank: “But to do this, you must also have a greater curiosity about the world.” Tank: “Moore’s law is one of those pseudo-sci rules cited by computer geeks: ‘Every
year-and-a-half, computer power doubles, and every year, the price of computers
Theodore Zeldin: “Of course, but to have curiosity, you must eliminate the fears which halve.’ Joy is also worried about the powerful technology falling into the hands of
stop you. It’s very difficult not to feel a fool talking about subjects in which you have technology élites. He seems to long for the time when technology was controlled
no formal qualifications. The world is organised to keep us all feeling scared. exclusively by the government or military. The whole point of the IT revolution is

262 263
 that power is accessible, for better and for worse.”

Theodore Zeldin: “I felt the main problem which worried him was the possibility that
his creations might have destructive results, in the same way as nuclear scientists
found themselves inventing new forces which were put to military purposes and
which they disapproved of. It is a fear that computers might end up as dangerous as
atomic bombs.

“Joy recognises that virtually every new invention has a bad or at least unexpected
side, as well as a desirable one. It seems to me that it is inevitable. You cannot fore-
see what will happen. There will always be people who corrupt or misapply or use
for selfish ends something that can also be used for compassionate ends. The only,
partial, solution is to maximise the attractions of the desirable end and make it
appeal to as large a majority as possible, even if a small minority persists in sub-
verting it for nefarious purposes.”

Tank: “Whenever there is a discussion about ethics and science, inevitably Robert
Oppenheimer and the development of the atomic bomb are cited. In the history of
science, this appears to be the main example, even though it is from fifty years ago.
Why is morality in science a relatively new concept?”

Theodore Zeldin: “It is interesting how science has for a very long time had military
origins. The ancient Chinese empire is said to have had an army of a million people,
and the steel and metal industry developed out of meeting its demand for weapons.
People have always spent vast sums on war –”

Tank: “– to safeguard the civilisation that would protect us from the cruel world?”
Rumour 265
 Theodore Zeldin: “Absolutely. Because rich people have often tried to protect their
wealth by force of arms or by ideologies or by otherwise subjugating their rivals. Moore’s law is one of those pseudo-sci rules cited by computer geeks:
Much of our technology has benefited from war in a roundabout way, but with great ‘Every year and a half, computer power doubles, and every year, the
waste. Engineers are not essentially moralists, but there is a spiritual content in price of computers halve.’
engineering. I would call them poets rather than moralists. They try to make some-
thing wonderful out of elements which do not seem to be promising. They can cre-
ate amazing things out of what looks like nothing. Keats said of the poet: ‘Out of Theodore Zeldin: “It leads itself. What is missing now is any adequate discussion
these create he can, Forms more real than living man’.” between those who have mastery over the creation of technology and those who say,
‘This is what humans need today more than anything else.’ You might argue that
Tank: “There is a poetic phrase that Joy uses in his essay, ‘the glitter of the nuclear’. what humans need more than anything else today is water, clean drinking water. Get
One of our contributors is the son of an arms manufacturer and his sister now down to it. Why are you spending millions on producing machines to go to Mars,
designs missiles. He feels that his entire family have been mesmerised by the sheer why aren’t you producing water? The difficulty, of course, is that there are always
power – ‘the glitter’ – of these instruments of destruction.” unexpected results following inventions.

Theodore Zeldin: “There is no doubt that the creation of an original piece of engi- “Joy’s phrase ‘If we can all agree as a species on what we wanted’ is very interest-
neering is mesmerising. It produces a kind of ecstasy that Joy talks about. In the ing. We have a long history of emphasising what we disagree about, what makes us
creative process, you’re not primarily concerned with moral issues. Technology different from each other, rather than what we have in common. Conflict is supposed
involves precise detailed construction, and it evolves out of technological stimuli. The to be the spur of all our achievements. But I am more interested in revealing what
steam engine was not invented because engineers had a vision of a tourist and leisure people have in common. The time has come for us to search for some agreement on
industry to broaden the interests of the masses. There has been very limited contact a modest scale between people like him and disinterested philosophers who are not
or interrelationship between creative engineers and philosophers or even public opin- seeking power for themselves, to discuss what the world is coming to and where it
ion. We need to remedy that gap, but it is not a simple thing to do. We need to dis- might be going. It would be a worthwhile experiment for them to investigate togeth-
cover our priorities, and adjust them all the time as new inventions appear and go er whether humans could be made less miserable, and less cruel to each other, if we
in surprising directions.” invented this or that kind of technology.”

Tank: “Of course, there is a history in the development of technology so that it leads Tank: “But there still remains a question whether this kind of technology is feasible,
itself.” especially with the speculative observations Joy makes in regards to robots. Some

266 267
 people would maintain that if anyone is in a position to know the future, Joy would speciality, so that they can constantly review their options. When they find some-
be, due to his history with the early super-computers. In the essay, he writes about thing which can blow the whole world up, they need to discuss what else they can do
his own personal discovery of the ‘amazing power of large machines to numerically with the same technology. They need a sense of direction, a sense of what humanity
simulate advanced designs’ and later he predicts that ‘once a robot exists, it is only wants to do with itself. It is very unlikely they will get a universally agreed answer
a small step to a robot species – to an intelligent robot that can make evolved copies – except possibly that it is right that people should be presented with the options
of itself.’ According to Joy, by 2030, robots will be hugely more powerful than the available to them, as clearly as possible. It is no longer acceptable to tell others what
technology that exists today. is good for them. But it is now necessary to treat them with respect, and give them
a chance to make choices as freely as possible, based on as wide a knowledge of the
“However, there is an opposing school of thought, which maintains that computers facts as possible.”
are nothing more than glorified counting machines. As precise as mathematics is,
there is no mathematical formula for a concept like beauty. 2+2=Fish can’t be Tank: “In the information age, some people complain there are too many options.
proven. So that brings the creation of robots with a thousand times the mechanical There’s too much information.”
equivalent of the human mind into doubt. Despite his speculations, Joy maintains
that the issues of our time are: genetic engineering, robotics and nanotechnology.” Theodore Zeldin: “You have to distinguish between information, knowledge and
wisdom. There is indeed a vast amount of information that is being made readily
available, but this is quite often isolated, fragmented information like ‘The cat is sit-
“It would be a worthwhile experiment for them to investigate ting on the mat’, which doesn’t tell you anything beyond that fact. Knowledge is an
together whether humans could be made less miserable, and less cruel ability to put information together and to master the rules which give information
to each other, if we invented this or that kind of technology.” sense. But when you search for wisdom, then you’re asking, ‘What should I do with
this knowledge, how should I live?’ That is something which no machine has yet
attempted to do.”
Theodore Zeldin: “Those are three areas where it looks as though it might be possi-
ble to create something new. Knowledge pushes you to discover more knowledge. If Tank: “Maybe a glorified adding machine can’t do that.”
you make a little robot, you will be led to make a bigger one, which may do very dif-
ferent things. This is how research is done. You are never quite certain what will Theodore Zeldin: “Agreement between different kinds of people can no longer be
come out of your work. This is the price and condition of originality. And why it is achieved as in the past, by presenting them with an ideology and saying, ‘Look, this is
so important for scientists to be in closer contact with a wider public, outside their the solution to your conflicts.’ Today we have to say instead, ‘Life is infinitely varied,

268 269
 “The next step in this revolution, from the ethical point of view, is to move beyond
“Joy saying he thought the originality of the twentieth century was just offering information. People need more opportunities for varied experiences, so
the nuclear revolution. I don’t agree with him. The gunpowder revolu- that they can base their choices on more reliable foundations, and so that they can
tion was a similar sort of revolution. I don’t think having more lethal discover what life involves, what being human can mean. Information without expe-
weapons is as original as all that.” rience is inadequate; and I think the hunger for experience is even stronger than the
hunger for information. We increasingly want to know what it feels like to be some-
one else, to be in a different place.”
and there are many ways of living.’ You can do what you like with your life (pro-
vided you don’t mess up other people’s), but before you do it, go and have a look at Tank: “Pure science is filtering down into people’s lives, and medical advances will
how other people have lived and are living. You can choose, if you want, to be a car- eventually enable humankind to live longer. Perhaps, fear is not the emotion that
penter or a plumber all your life, but your choice will only be a considered and free will meet the challenge.”
one if you first see how other professions live and work. Then you might consider the
fact that within two decades or so people might start living regularly to the age of Theodore Zeldin: “Fear of the misuse of knowledge is due to a limitation of the
100. To spend all those years in one occupation may no longer seem satisfactory; imagination. Fear is ultimately vanquished or silenced by curiosity. One forgets fear
one unchanging style of life may become too boring. In the past, if you were born a when new objects of attention become so exciting that exploring them becomes irre-
peasant you would very likely spend your life as a peasant, and your children would sistible, however foolish it might be to jump in. One forgets that one’s adventure may
be peasants too. Nowadays, you train as an engineer or doctor, work for thirty years, fail, or even that one may be injured in the process of investigation. One original fea-
get a pension and die. Already we are beginning to question whether that allows us ture of our time is that we are more educated, and the result of that is that we are
to use all our talents. When life lasts for a 100 years, we may be even less satisfied aware of many more possibilities in our desire to live full lives. Above all, women
with having just one kind of life, one identity, one occupation for so long. We may are increasingly participating in public life, and in all aspects of life. They are criti-
say we need seven lives to be fully what we can be. But for that we will need a total- cal of what they find, because they’re as it were newcomers, viewing worlds from
ly different kind of education. Instead of education making us specialists, it will have which they were previously excluded with fresh eyes. Why are things organised the
to allow us to taste the different forms of available existence, enable us to appreci- way they are? Men don’t find it all that easy to explain; it’s not enough that they
ate them, and make us comfortable in the different kinds of languages available to have always been like this. How could it be better or different? So there is a great
humans. Today each profession shuts itself up in a jargon which outsiders have dif- potential now for rethinking the way we behave.
ficulty in penetrating. At the age of twenty, you have to choose your career, and it’s
not easy to change later. “I remember Joy saying he thought the originality of the twentieth century was the

270 271
 nuclear revolution. I don’t agree with him. The gunpowder revolution was a similar
sort of revolution. I don’t think having more lethal weapons is as original as all that.
The most important originality of modern times has been the new ambitions of
women. That has never happened in the history of the world. It has doubled our
potential.”

Tank: “In the Middle East, a high proportion of almost half their population is shel-
tered or enclosed, not allowed to participate. But in Iran, women who were tradi-
tionally kept at home are now socially and politically active in society. They are
doing something remarkable that is only happening on a small scale in Saudi
Arabia, where women are still by law not allowed to drive.”

Theodore Zeldin: “Iran is just beginning. Where it will go, one doesn’t know. In
practical terms, the important change is that women are demanding that people live
at many different levels, and that they should not concentrate their attention on the
acquisition of power.”

Tank: “So the model is non-hierarchal?”

Theodore Zeldin: “In conversation, women now demand not just that they should be
loved, but that men should explain why they love them, and how their love changes
as they both change, which means a conversation that goes beyond traditional com-
pliments, and seeks to investigate what each partner wants and thinks. It is an inter-
action that can never stop, when both are interested in growing and constantly mak-
ing new discoveries. This completely alters human relations.”

Tank: “So you don’t think that the technological revolution is a more important rev-

272 Talk to Me
 olution? New inventions always seem to come along.” Tank: “And somehow this gets amplified in the rest of society. People act like cat-
alysts in a greater chain reaction.”
Theodore Zeldin: “For example the technology of shipping, which enabled people to
go to America, changed the world. The technology of mass production also changed Theodore Zeldin: “That means that each individual, however humble, can do some-
the world.” thing significant in the world, if they establish a relationship with another person. It
doesn’t have to be just man and woman, it could be any two people.”
Tank: “But throughout all these different changes, the relation between the sexes
has remained static.” Tank: “That seems to be one of the main premises of Intimate History . It is a con-
cept rarely articulated today.”
Theodore Zeldin: “That’s something very fundamental, because we’re ultimately
talking about humans. We now have a chance of achieving something, which Theodore Zeldin: “We have been taught that the main way to remedy our discon-
humans have been trying to do since the world began. Inequality has been at the core tents is through governmental action and passing laws. But history has shown that
of all civilisations. The essence of the new relationship between men and women is laws are frequently ineffective, because they cannot change mentalities. You can
that they demand mutual respect in an unprecedented way, that each should listen pass laws requiring equal pay for women, but that cannot ensure that men will stop
to the other and treat their opinions as equal. Conversation has become the instru- discriminating against women, either in public or private life. Nor is it enough to
ment which creates equality. When two people learn to talk to each other in a way hope that we can change the world by technology, because all depends on how peo-
where they are really trying to understand the other’s feelings, to exchange ideas and ple use technology in practice. If you introduce washing machines, that doesn’t by
exchange sympathies, they become different people. They learn to treat each other itself change the internal relations of the family.”
as equals. Which means that they create a small piece of equality, in a world made
up of inequality.” Tank: “Going back to technology, whereas Joy’s thinking about robots is highly spec-
ulative, I’ve been told that nanotechnology is twenty or thirty years away. Unlike
other predictions about the future, like living in space, scientists are solving the phys-
So if there are hundreds and thousands of these little machines, made ical problems of nanotechnology, and if we want them to, nano-machines can be
from simple and small parts, it is the instructions or the copyrights on made to be self-replicating.
these machines, which are important. Just as in the patenting of human
genes, copyright is one of the major issues of the twenty-first century. “So if there are hundreds and thousands of these little machines, made from simple
and small parts, it is the instructions or the copyrights on these machines, which are

274 275
 important. Just as in the patenting of human genes, copyright is one of the major
issues of the twenty-first century.”

Theodore Zeldin: “You are continuing to think with the mindset of the twentieth cen-
tury. You are continuing to worry about power, about who controls whom. I am say-
ing the demand for this new century is not for power but for respect. The most pow-
erful people are not necessarily respected. That alters the assessment we make of
our possessions and our technology.

“Take the clock, for example, which was invented a very long time ago. A large
number of people still don’t have clocks, even though they have become very cheap.
But even among those who had clocks installed in church towers and then in their
homes, it took several centuries to change human habits. People did not like to live
by the clock, instead of by the seasons. Making them punctual, and willing to work
with perfect regularity, is one of the greatest of all revolutions. It was fiercely resist-
ed by factory workers, who originally liked to work when they felt like it, with paus-
es of their own choice. Don’t expect technology to change mentalities at once.”

Tank: “So power is a twentieth century concept.”

Theodore Zeldin: “I think it is. This is the consequence of the new attitudes of
women. Some women are making it their priority to break the glass ceiling and
gather power. Of course, when they get into the top echelons they often discover that
the cut-throat world they have conquered does not give them exactly what they want.
The kind of life that is led by most big business magnates is not wholly attractive.
So people ask themselves, what is an attractive life? Increasingly, the view today is
that an attractive life is one incorporating considerable variation, one which allows
Four Characters; In Search of a Language 277
 a person to enjoy many different forms of experience, and to develop many sides of Tank: “Earlier you said that maybe some kind of agenda for humanity could be
their character. Success can no longer be defined in terms of promotion or salary. agreed on, but people can’t even decide on what to have for dinner. How would this
What used to be called success may make you a bore, an inadequate human being. agenda be determined? Should we rely on the President’s or the Prime Minister’s
It may not make you worthy of respect. In other words, people are becoming more office?”
discriminating, they are searching more widely for opportunities to express their
humanity.” Theodore Zeldin: “No, we rely on ourselves. All change has always been initiated by
minorities. The majority is always conservative because it is fearful of losing the lit-
Tank: “In your estimation, Joy is not facing the future, but the past.” tle amount of security it has. To change means taking a risk. To jump into the
unknown you must either have nothing to lose, or have a strong imagination, so that
Theodore Zeldin: “I think he is still, as I’ve said, falling back on inherited ways of the future is more enticing than the present. The prudent and the cautious need a
thinking in those areas where he’s not in control. That is not surprising. He says he chance to observe different ways of living in safety, and to taste change in small
started thinking about mathematics when he was three-years-old. He’s thought doses, in the way they might try out new clothes, and see what happens. Profound
about maths very well. Now, he’s got a bit of leisure perhaps, and he’s thinking more changes have hitherto taken generations.
broadly about his life. It would be very interesting to talk to him, to get him to devel-
op his views further. “I saw this just last week. I was invited to advise a city in France on developing a
plan for its future. So I go along and I meet a lot of people and I am at first struck
“The real question is how can one develop a generally creative result from it? That’s by the vast amount of timidity and worry: people are worried, for example, about
quite hard.” whether they will get their pension after a lifetime of sacrifice. But the young are
different. At first they sound depressed, too; they say they will just take whatever job
they can get; they don’t feel they have all that much choice, given what they have
“People did not like to live by the clock, instead of by the seasons. been told about their limited abilities and the city’s economic difficulties. In other
Making them punctual, and willing to work with perfect regularity, is words, they have not been offered a really wide range of options. When I talk about
one of the greatest of all revolutions. It was fiercely resisted by factory other possibilities, they get excited. The question is how that excitement can be
workers, who originally liked to work when they felt like it, with paus- translated into action.
es of their own choice. Don’t expect technology to change mentalities
at once.” “I’m very conscious that these novelties, these new forms of technology, may ulti-
mately, like many inventions of the past, be used to reinforce existing habits.

278 279
 Humans have always had a tendency to place originality in a harmless little corner
within tradition, so that it does not disturb or threaten them.”

Tank: “One of Joy’s friends, a leading computer scientist, said all these momentous
technological changes are coming and whatever they are we’ll gradually get used to
them and incorporate them into our lives or even into our bodies.”

Theodore Zeldin: “What one learns from modern cognitive science is that the nat-
ural inclination of humans is to be lazy, mentally. Humans classify their perceptions
as far as possible into existing pigeon-holes. It requires a lot of extra effort to extract
all the content out of new thoughts, and to appreciate originality. Innovative artists
have notoriously suffered from this.”

Tank: “But it’s hard to be a visionary.”

Theodore Zeldin: “We are all born with hope; some hold on to hope longer than oth-
ers. Our educational system gradually limits hope under the pretence of being real-
istic. It tells pupils they are not as clever or as free as they think, that the range of
their talents is limited. Children begin with high expectations. When you say it’s dif-
ficult to be a visionary, I disagree. I think we’re born visionaries. Then our visions
are gradually extinguished. It is as though we have helmets put on our heads, so that
we don’t have too many inconvenient ideas.

“So when you ask me how can we agree, I think we can agree that we’d rather have
equal respect.”

Malu Halasa talked with Theodore Zeldin for Tank; additional research provided by Kevin S.

280 No New Messages

 photos: Masoud · stylist: Jo Phillips @ Transit

282
previous page · skirt + top by Pierre Balmain haute couture by Oscar de la Renta · earrings by Erickson gold dress + shoes by Valentino couture · necklace + earrings by Slim Barrett @ Liberty
Beamon · gloves by Cornelia James · hat by Philip Treacy
black dress + stilettos by Yves Saint Laurent haute couture
gold necklace + bracelet by Paloma Picasso for Tiffany
dress + sandals by Emanuel Ungaro haute couture hair: Asashi @ S Management using Trendline for Goldwell · make-up: Philippe Miletto @ Transit · models:
all pearl jewellery by Coleman Douglas Pearls · tights by Aristoc Sveta @ Premier + Agathe @ Take 2 · photo assistant: Kay Wahlig · stylist’s assistants: Aaron Collins + Paul Craig
shot at the Brickhouse · thanks to all the hands
 Art by Mike Heath + Rebecca Brown

ANTI-STATIC

ARCHITECTURE AWARD
sponsored by eyestom.com

290
 TANK is a space in which ideas can be presented and point of views exchanged.
It is in keeping with this spirit that we are delighted to announce the details for the inaugural TANK
magazine architecture competition, in association with eyestorm.com. TANK's aim is to create a dia-
logue between contemporary practice and thinking in architecture and the wider, nonspecialist public.
To launch the annual competition, we are very excited to announce the participation of the godlike
Dutch architect and the winner of the Pritzker Architecture Prize for 2000, Rem Koolhaas.

Competition title:
Anti Static
Reinvent the architectural symbol of a transient world – the Roadside Inn.

Judging panel:
Rem Koolhaas, architect and winner of the Pritzker Architecture Prize for 2000
Hussein Chalayan, British Designer of the Year
Ekow Eshun, journalist and critic
Sally Mackereth, Royal College of Art
Lucas Dietrich, Architecture Editor, Thames + Hudson

Prizes:
First prize: £5000
Special Mention: £1000

Entry Qualification:
The competition is open to current architecture students and those with less than one year of
post-RIBA, part two experience, or the equivalent.

Design Submissions:
Two sheets: Din A1-size thick drawing paper/card. Any medium is acceptable:
pencil or ink drawings, CAD prints, photographs, animation on CD-ROM;
explanatory text etc. may be included.

292
 Enquiries:
No enquiries concerning the theme of the competition will be accepted.
Solutions to all problems not covered in the competition are left to the
free decision of the applicants.

Procedure for Submitting Design Ideas:

Attach the completed registration card with number to the back of the
design drawings and either bring it or mail it to the address given
below. (This applies also to joint submissions).

Restrictions:
Entries must never have been made public in any form previously.
Applicants retain copyright on designs submitted, but the sponsors of the
competition retains all rights relating to the publications of prize-winning entries.

Deadlines:
All entries must be received at the address below no later than 5pm, Thursday, June 8th 2000.
(Mail, FED EX, DHL etc. are all acceptable.)
Please retain a copy as entries will not be returned.

The winner will be announced in TANK 10, the first week of July 2000.
The winners and the runners up entries will be exhibited on www.eyestorm.com

The address for submissions is:

TANK
58 Frith Street,
London W1V 5TA

Application forms can be obtained by a faxed request from: ++44.20.74 34 01 10

or from our web site on www.tankmagazine.com

Coordinator:
Vicky Stewart, [email protected]

294
 Six issues of Tank including p+p UK + Ireland £60.00 · Overseas £72.00

Method of payment: cheque postal order

Cheques or Postal Orders in Pound Sterling only, made payable to: "Tank Publications Ltd."

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297
 Looks like the party is hotting Bruce has a lottabottle.
up! Oh what’s this? George is on his Rolling in with no cash and
maiden voyage with a full tray. rolling out again with some-
one else’s missus and a bot-
Thank the lord for famous tle of vodka!
friends. Looks like good old Karl has
stepped in and shared his bottle. We reckon this is instant
upgrade to ‘A’ list celebrity
status! Good on ya Bruce!!

The Final Straw!

Our happy snappy photographer
has spotted Demi and Steve
making their ‘Great Escape’ out
the back door. We hope Demi
doesn’t get tangled up in the
barbed wire this time!!
 Close up
Karl has obviously finished the first
part of his left wing pamphlet about
London but it looks a little thin.

Bonkette
But Karl looks more interested in a
different kind of Pamphlet. She must
be getting full marks for her studying
and she doesn’t look a little thin.

Ooops
What’s this? Bruce has left his wallet on the
hall table and is only carrying coppers.
No one gets drinks in here for being famous.

Demi says, “Don’t look at me! Where do you

think I would keep a purse in this dress?
And don’t do that elephant impression again!”
“DOUBLE TROUBLE WITH OUR
STARS IN TOWN”
AN ABSOLUT STORY BY BUMP

Outside
Bruce and Demi have a
spot of bother getting in-
to the Player. Bouncer to
the stars ‘wrist slapper’
Slim knows how to deal
with angry ‘B’ list celebs.

“You’ve just got to use a

little force, show them
who’s boss and if that
didn’t work I knew that
in Bruce’s case I had
photos of him and my
sister. Luckily he was
invited and I didn’t have
to get handy. I feel sorry
for that Debbie, such a
nice girl.”

In-depth
We notice that Bruce
isn’t wearing his wed-
ding ring. What has
happened? Are these
rumours right about him
spending all of his spare
time in the Arndale
shopping centre with his
new friend Cilla?

At the Bar
Trainee barman George is being put through a vigorous
training session. “You would not believe how much there
is to learn, it’s all go in here.”
On being asked why the change of career, George replied,
“‘A change is as good a vest’ – everyone is so nice to me in
here. There is no being pushed around and I get my own
feather duster.”
ABSOLUT DOUBLE