ISSUE no. 25 [2015] / ANTAGONIST PIECE no.

368 / Dwellings

Dear Reader,
When we think of our home, we think of how we live,
work, play, and the comfort we experience in our
humble safe haven. But what happens when the
delicate balance becomes interrupted? Citizens for
the Arts (CFA) and the Antagonist Art Movementʼs
latest project examines the hardships and the emotional ramifications of losing oneʼs home. Disasters in
mother nature, such as typhoon Haiyan in the
Philippines, devastating earthquakes from around the
world, economic strains such as
foreclosures, and even areas wrought by the sieges of
war and protest are all too familiar in the news. This
project aims to strengthen awareness, and in turn
discover alternative ways individuals can help one
another in times of distress.
This is not only the theme for this issue but also an art
show happening in Sydney, Australia at the 107
Project space during October/November 2015. For
the zine form, we will focus on writers and artists.

Ethan Minsker





& Kristin





mixture of fiction and nonfiction. We also cover news of the
art world, from street to gallery.
Back issues can be found at
“Psycho Moto Zine archives”
at To learn
more about the Antagonist
Movement, look us up on

MOVEMENT Why: We want to
change the art world by creating the next movement. How
will we do that? By casting a
large net—creating venues that
allow artists to experiment,
pulling artists out of their
solitary existence and creating
a community. By fostering
otherwise overlooked concepts
and individuals, and ignoring
an artistʼs background regardless of education, social class,
or location. By unlocking
hidden potential. What will this
do? Change everything. Art
changes the social fabric at
branch of the Antagonist Art
Movementʼs press and has been
in existence since 1988 under
the original title East Coast
Exchange. It acts as a venue for
our writers, artists and editors.
In an attempt to create new
forms of art and writing, we
highlight the obscure and
unknown artists, draw focus to
subjects passed over by the
mainstream media. This is a
not-for-profit publication.
Artists/writers donate their time
to create this. The content is a

So, if you enjoy what you have
read, please take a moment
and look up our films and
books. Find our catalog listed at
the end of this issue. There are
digital copies of each for $1.99
on Amazon. We believe the
price shouldnʼt hinder you, so
we do our best to have a cheap
alternative to the hard copies.
We are passionate about each
project, mixing love and attention to detail to create a unique
work of art. Our goal is to
make something the large
entertainment companies fail to
do, which is create inspired
works that cater to like-minded
individuals. All the money we
generate goes back to creating
new art projects and supports a
large community of struggling
Questions? Comments? Stories?
Suggestions? Contact us at, email us at or


follow/message us at

Ethan and his little girl doing
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A few years ago now, when I was around 18 or something, I

found myself living back up in Queensland in a friendʼs dank,
mold-ridden garage. My father Jed and I were still getting to
know one another, after a brief time I lived with him when I
was 17, in Cannon Hill, South Brisbane. He was, at the time,
going through court hearings for more time/joint custody of
some of his other children so, needless to say, was a bit preoccupied to deal with some trashy teen from his first marriage.
Our relationship was vague at the very least.

My full brother Matthew was living there around that time
also, and had been in prison not too long before I arrived (or
so I remember). The hurt he put himself through fighting for
Jedʼs attention and the ramifications of his own actions had
morphed from youthful confusion into anger and showed in his

brow, which, facially speaking, was his most prominent feature.
He was a short, stocky build with wavy brunette hair and
piercing green-blue eyes, and had a temper that matched that
of God's in the Old Testament. Very short fuse and not the
Matthew I remembered.

Things became a bit too much after Matthew had a conniption
which resulted in a fist fight with Jed and then Matthew
promptly moving in with his then girlfriend, Jenny, in Pacific
Pines, Gold Coast. I stayed and found myself watching my
fatherʼs kids from his second marriage every second weekend
while he went off womanizing and wasnʼt particularly interested in that because I barely knew my father let alone his other
spawn. I moved into my own place shortly after.
Thereʼs a lot that happened between then and living back up
in the ol' QLD, but thatʼs another story for another time…

So anyway, I found myself back up in that festering, pus-ridden
boil on the ass-cheek of a dystopian nightmare more affectionately known as Queensland, and decided Iʼd check in on the
old man. I called him and he said heʼd pick me up in town, and
so he did, and drove me to some caravan park on the other
side of Mt. Gravatte. My father, living in a caravan park in the
ass end of Brisbane…classy, I thought to myself as we arrived.
His caravan wasnʼt the worst in the park, but there was a beat
up Mitsubishi 4x4 up on blocks out front, which screamed Jed.
He was a grease monkey, as my mother would call him whenever I'd ask about him. A no good, womanizing, grease
We went inside and spoke mostly of his problems, which was
the usual topic of conversation with the old man, and ate Mi


Goreng mixed with tinned tuna and grated cheese. Out of the
blue he decided heʼd take a piss in the sink right in front of me,
though luckily he turned the tap on to wash it down or Iʼd be
double guessing the man… My mind was racing. I wasnʼt sure
whether to be angry or impressed. He was like a fictional
character from some twisted American novella; a wayward
gypsy hick fighting his way through a whole lot of spaceless
time… or timeless space? I wasnʼt too sure.

Regardless, I was confused. I thought maybe that Iʼd been
switched at birth, that this strange man was in fact not my
father but some imposter masquerading as my father. Our
conversation (me listening to him ramble on) went on into the
evening and
all I can
thinking to
myself was,
god-damn! I
need a
drink!” When
I returned to
the comfort of
my futon
wedged in the
corner of that
dank garage I
called home, I
did just that.




There are places.
Places you remember thoroughly.
Places you forget instantly.
Places worth visiting.
Places worth revisiting.
Places worth forgetting.
Places made for creating memories.
Places made for wasting time.
Places made for spending your fortunes.
Places made for photos and film.
Places made for sun-kissed skin.
Places so far-fetched and exhilarating.
Places damp and deeply depressing.
Places you’ve never dreamed of finding.
Places you simply cannot thrive in.

There are an exuberant amount of places in oneʼs life that are
purposed for vastly different means, as there are a select few
places that hold true sentiment. Then, of course, there lies that
one special place—a place of great dwelling. A place of love,
life, and storytelling. A place many, many people have built
upon blood, sweat, and tears and yet that same place is filled
with crazy laughter. A place of fears and a place of disasters.
A place of ancestries and progenitors. A place of love and of
life, and of bittersweet demise. This wonderland, this place; the
place we called home.




In 1994, I was a Senior at La Guardia High School of Music

and Art and Performing Arts in Manhattan. I think Madonnaʼs
daughter goes there now. But I digress…. That fall, for some
reason, my mom took me to buy a beeper. says
that, “by 1994, there were over 61 million pagers in use.” So I
must not have been the only one. Was it the novelty of being
contactable, anytime, anywhere, for the first time in human
history? Or was it to prove my popularity (or lack thereof)?
Wow! Look how many people are trying to reach me! I have
been vibrating all day! Now I just need to find a damn working
payphone that accepts callbacks. Whatever the reason,
beeper in hand, or on pants, I embraced the future of one-way
communication technologies mostly used for drug deals.

My beeper was a Motorola Bravo Turbo 5000 Plus. Ok, I am
making that up, but I am pretty sure about the Motorola part. It
might have been a lovely transparent turquoise, like a precursor to an iMac, but it was probably just black. It was a small
vertical box with a little screen at the top, which could fit about
10 numeric digits. It had two buttons, or it might have had one.
After vibrating and beeping my way through social studies,
Spanish and gym, I would rush to the girls bathroom, my
flannel shirt flapping in the air, to check the number, only to
find my friend Joanna smoking her 10th cigarette of the morning in the stall. Someone beeped me during math! I would tell
her. What a fucking idiot, she would say, blowing smoke
through her nose. (I donʼt think she meant me.) Her two
knee-high, lace-up Doc Marten boots balanced on the dirty
toilet seat as she inspected my beeper. There were numeric
codes back then, where every number stood for a letter, but I
donʼt think I was ever that advanced. Back in the bathroom,

I anxiously looked down at the little beeper window. It said
“07734”. I turned it upside down. “HELLO.”

The next week in my creative writing class, I enjoyed several
vibrations in a row from a strange number. Excusing myself
from the lesson, I took the escalators down, down, down to the
ground floor of my eight-story high school, where there were
two payphones for 2,700 students. I inserted a quarter and
dialed the number. It was my friend Jocelyn calling from a
Central Park payphone, cutting school and having an acid trip.
I am bugging out, she said. Ha ha. I hung up, unamused, and
traveled back up several escalators to finish the day. That night
I disconnected my beeper. Several years later, I was one of the
last people I knew to buy a cell phone and I still donʼt like
returning calls. 5376616. Hee hee.


“United Nations in 2005 – an estimated 100 million people were

homeless worldwide and as many as 1 billion people lacked
adequate housing.” [1]
“More than 400,000 New Yorkers reside in NYCHA's 328 public
housing developments across the City’s five boroughs.” [2]
“Katrina displaced more than a million people in the Gulf Coast
region in August 2005.” [3]
“The median existing-home price for all housing types in January
[2014] was $188,900…” [4]
“Each year more than 2,500 people die and 12,600 are injured in
home fires in the United States, with direct property loss due to
home fires estimated at $7.3 billion annually.” [5]


“Around 400,000 people are expected to be homeless as a result
of [the March 11, 2011] earthquake (due to destroyed buildings
or forced evacuation).” [6]


An initial idea to shoot landscapes of Manila, highlighting the

stark contrast between the slums and the affluent cityscape,
led me into Ulingan and Aroma to shoot elements of the
project. I wanted to show the faces of the people who live in
these conditions rather than look at the slums as simple structural constructs.

However, the project was soon to develop into something very
different indeed.

On arriving in Aroma, the first thing that hits you is the
smell—impossible to get out of your nose. The slums have no
running water or sewer systems—they have basic trenches, but
these are mostly to drain away rainwater.

There was thick mud
underfoot. The
residents use rubbish
in place of topsoil. It
absorbs the mud and
fills the thick channels
gouged by motorbikes
and the few cars that
use the streets. There
Simon Harsent
are no roads (apart
from in North Cemetery), just these muddy paths full of debris
acting as a kind of temporary tarmac.
There is no preparation for a sight like this—it was overwhelming. However, the longer I spent in Aroma, and slums like it
throughout Manila, the more intrigued I became by how
resourceful and practical people can be. Starting with nothing,
they manage to solve problems and make money. There may
not be running water in Aroma, but there are revenue
streams—itʼs a
example of
creativity through

The buildings
these people live
in are, as you
would expect,
incredibly primiSimon Harsent
tive. Theyʼre
really just knocked together out of scraps of wood and plastic.
It almost looks as if they hold each other together—you get a


Simon Harsent

sense that if one was to structurally fail, they would all go. The
more I thought about this, the more I realised that the buildings, in this sense, share something in common with the people
who built them.

And so a project about contrasts and separateness became a
look at humanity and connectivity, at how people can flourish
in the most unbelievable conditions when they build a sense of
togetherness—when, like the buildings they live in, they can
lean on each other. Affluent or poor, we need the interaction
and bonding brought about by community. When we stick
together, we can survive adversity; when we rely on each
other for support, we become stronger.



My family has lived within a few blocks of the Lower East Side
since arriving in America slightly over a hundred years ago.
For us, the neighborhood consisted, with some notable exceptions, of the area south of Delancey Street and as far west as
the Manhattan Bridge, which was still very Jewish, if not
primarily so, to the end of the 1970s.

As a teenager, my geography expanded and my mind exploded as I came to discover that the area beyond Delancey—a
forbidden zone previously known only for its hard drugs,
abandoned buildings, bums, and hooligans—was more weird
than dangerous, a place of vast creativity, big personalities,
heady intellectualism, distinctive urban semiotics, and punk. It
was then that I took up residence with my grandmother in her
one bedroom apartment, the very same one in which sheʼd
previously raised two children and buried one husband, my
grandfather, of beloved memory. Since the time of my grandfatherʼs passing, of a heart attack in the middle of the night,
my grandmother slept in the living room, not wanting to sleep
in my grandfatherʼs deathbed, while also wanting to be closer
to my great-aunt, who lived directly across the hall from her
with my great-uncle Harry, in case of emergency.

I was often going to see bands play and staying out very late,
then carefully sneaking past my grandmother, asleep on the
couch with one eye open and one ear to the tracks. At the
time, I was not much of a drinker or pot smoker, as was then
the way of the punk intelligentsia. My concern was with her
knowing when I was coming home because she was a


worrywart and having to deal with her neurotic antics was one
of the pitfalls of living in my grandmaʼs apartment.

This one night I recall driving my Puerto Rican punk pals home
to the South Bronx. It was late when I got back downtown,
circling up and down Grand Street looking for a parking spot,
and I knew grandma would let me have it the following day.
She would let me know that my coming home scared her and
she would share with me the various things that my lateness
had caused her to contemplate—automobile accidents, homicidal attacks, abductions by drug-crazed lunatics, my being boiled
and fed to the homeless—all in lurid detail.

Then I saw a spot, or what I thought was a spot, as the parking sign was sideways on an angle that I could not read from
the car, so I got out. Unfortunately, I instantly locked myself out
of the car with it running and, only to make matters worse, it
wasnʼt even a parking spot. To tally it up: my car is running in
the middle of the street, Iʼm locked out of it, I donʼt have a
spot, itʼs vastly late, and Iʼm on the Lower East Side in pre-Giuliani New York.
I dashed up three flights to grandmaʼs and tried to sneak past
her while also searching for the Manhattan Yellow Pages in the
dark. Recall or imagine the size of the Manhattan Yellow Pages
in the 1980s. Now imagine trying to find it in the dark while
not stirring a Jewish grandma. This was an almost mission
impossible. I found the book and took it in the bedroom to call
a towing company so they could “jimmy” open the door. The
first service wanted $100. That was a lot, but I was afraid
someone was going to steal my car, so I told them where it
was. Then I called a second company. They wanted only $50,
so I also told them where it was. I grabbed some cash from my
underwear drawer and raced down the stairs.

No sooner than I got there, a beautiful tow truck, so clean it
gleamed under dim streetlights, pulled up. Of course, it was the
$100 company, but soon after I saw a flatbed coming my way.
Hoping it was the $50 company, I dithered, and, sure enough,
it was, so I declined the services of the fancy company, who
sped away, dropping bitter insults. Breaking into my car was
easy with a “slim jim.” The door popped open.

As it was now morning, I soon found a proper parking spot.
When I got back upstairs, everyone on my grandmaʼs floor
was in the hallway, and she was tearing her housecoat and
sobbing. She told everyone Iʼd been taken ransom after having
paid money to some strange man on the phone. My
75-year-old great-uncle Harry really gave me hell because
grandma was sending him down to search for me amid the vast
warren of rat-infested, scum-filled tenement basement spiderholes north of Delancey. After that night, I was more careful to
be quiet when coming home, lest I face my grandmaʼs apartment complex.


Inspired by: Rachel Schwind Gardner and her debut exhibition “REWILDING”. Much love to you and yours. Follow the
call and may your spirit remain free.

The New Dawn
As darkness falls within the walls
of concrete dwelling places


Night brings to life under
the stars some unseen wild faces
Inside safe halls lights dim
down it's time for some to sleep
Outside are calls from out of
sight inside the shadows creep
The moon flies high inside a
sky where unchained hearts run free
You and I they them us we
wait in darkness with hope of seeing
The New Dawn of

Upon the Sea
Something in the air has an
unfamiliar smell
First whiffs faint silent
like whispers in the wind
This scent consumes slowly
Filling up new sails


Whispers scream howl loud
now within this gale
Alone each Being floats
under the same dome
Where the moon flies high pulls
when we're called home
Upon the Sea of

Victorious at last journeys end
a hearth is built with intent
Defined mine warmth and defense
to all within it represents
Once safe inside our new abode
no reason to seek or roam
Dark falls not upon these walls
yet outside a whisper calls
Walls nor keep can stifle cries inside
this place where shadows creep
Loud howls scream now tears fall
fast remembering cries days of past

Again it starts never ending this
spark inside creating Being
The moon flies high inside
a sky under same dome
As darkness falls within the walls
of concrete dwelling places
You and I they them us we
wait in darkness with hope of seeing
Wild faces under same dome where
the moon flys high answering the cries
Çalling us Home to

Jeramy Fletcher





She wasn't just one of our curators, artists, or

designers. She was our little sister, our mother, and our
friend. To say we miss her wouldn't be a big enough
statement. This is a huge loss for the art community.
But, she would not want us to be sad. Her work is a
reflection of her beautiful soul. Please take a moment
to check out her art and celebrate her amazing life.

Rest in beauty, Sylvia.




Rant: The Oral Biography of Buster
Casey by Chuck Palahniuk
ISBN-13: 978-0307275837
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Anchor; Reprint edition
May 6, 2008

“Buster ʻRantʼ Casey just may be the
most efficient serial killer of our time. A
high school rebel, Rant Casey escapes
from his small town home for the big city where he becomes
the leader of an urban demolition derby called Party Crashing.
Rant Casey will die a spectacular highway death, after which
his friends gather the testimony needed to build an oral history
of his short, violent life. With hilarity, horror, and blazing
insight, Rant is a mind-bending vision of the future, as only
Chuck Palahniuk could ever imagine.”
This is a book for those with a short attention span. Itʼs broken
up into paragraphs, small self-contained stories, a page or two
at most. This formula makes it a page-turner. Told as first-person
accounts and expert analysis, Palahniuk turns the story over
and over looking at it from all perspectives, even those that
conflict, giving it a more realistic feel. The charactersʼ tone of
dialogue reflects their social standing, education, and class.
This is the book for the rubberneckers, those who drive by car
wrecks and want to see all the gory details. I can't help but
draw many similarities to his other book Fight Club—smart,
funny, and a critical look at our consumer society. I flew
through this book. I donʼt think I could give it better praise than





Simon Harsentʼs career has spanned more than
20 years and three continents.
Born in England, his photographic career began
in London after he finished studying photography
at Watford College. In 1987 Harsent moved to
Sydney, Australia where he soon established
himself as one of the countryʼs leading commercial
photographers working with the top advertisers in
Australia and Asia.
Over the years, Harsentʼs work has been recognized by numerous awards bodies.
These include Archive, American Photography, Graphis, Communication Arts,
PDN, D&AD, Clio, One Show and Cannes. He has been listed in Luerzerʼs Archive
200 Best Advertising Photographers Worldwide every year since its inception, and
his work with Levis in Asia in 2008 saw him named Photographer of the Year at
The Institute of Advertising Singapore Hall of Fame Awards.


The Dolls Of Lisbon - A movie about struggling artists
making work on the other side of the world. A DIY eyeball-busting bonanza. Available on Amazon, iTunes and on DVD. Also
available at St. Marks Book Shop 136 E 3rd St, New York, NY
10009. Money goes to making new overseas art projects.

This is Berlin, Not New York - See what trouble the
Antagonists can get into when you make art in abandoned
buildings in Berlin. Available on DVD and Amazon instant

Anything Boys Can Do - Female musicians are all too
often regarded as novelty acts, regularly shrugged off as
militant feminist or cutely entertaining. Overwhelmed by the
numbers of male bands, female bands of the scene are lumped
together in one category, "girl group", regardless of their vastly
different styles. Available on DVD and Amazon instant download.

The Soft Hustle - The story of a Lower East Side lowlife
who makes a bet for $1,000, which he promptly loses. After
getting kicked out of the apartment by his girlfriend, he finds
himself having sex with cheap barflies, robbing East Village
stores, and pathetically pretending he is gay just to have a place
to sleep. Available on Amazon instant download.


Rich Boy Cries For Momma - A first-hand account
of Washington, D.C.ʼs punk rock scene in the ʻ80s and ʻ90s as
told by a dyslexic punk. Available anywhere e-books and
paperbacks are sold. Also available at St. Marks Book Shop
136 E 3rd St, New York, NY 10009 and Generation Records at
210 Thompson St. between w. 3rd and Bleecker St. Money
goes to publishing new books.
Barstool Prophets - A book about the dirty secrets
every bartender in the Lower East Side knows. Before you
date a bartender, read this book. Available anywhere e-books
and paperbacks are sold. Also available at St. Marks Book
Shop 136 E 3rd St, New York, NY 10009. Money goes to
publishing new books.

Where can you get an
Antagonist shirt, button
or a buncha other stuff?
Head on over to and
visit our Store



OPENING: 10/29 6-8p

107 Projects
107 Redfern St, Redfern
NSW 2016, Australia
Phone: +61 2 9690 1007