issue too £8

too deep · too arty · too fashiony · too clever 1

faster now

photo: Kevin Martin

coverphoto: John Paul Pietrus

 Science
exit I Bio Wars by Kevin S + Malu Halasa p.174

Politics
exit 2 I Spy by Venice Allan p.108
Sim City by Hari Kunzru p.216

Life
exit 3 Third Sex by Malu Halasa p.26 + Judah Passow p.32 + Louise Gray p.36
Loosing Ground by Donovan Wylie p.82
New Skool by Kai Wiechmann p.146
Mastered by Slaves by Thierry van Biesen

Fact & Fiction

exit 4 Surfer by Markie Robson-Scott p.70
The Visits Room by Kate Pullinger p.268
Soulmates by Mark Leigh p.280

Fashion
exit 5 The Man Who Fell to Earth by Tim Bret-Day p.8
Chalk Farm by Eva Mueller p.40
Multiple by Barnaby + Scott p.60
Sisters in Devotion by Dmon Prunner p.130
Alice in Wonderland by Jonathan West p.158
Boxing Helena by John Paul Pietrus p.194
Hunger by Masoud p.234
Cold Fusion by Stephan Ziehen p.244

Senses
exit 6 Le Click! Rusch p.56
Still Lifes by Alan Mahon p.76
Paradiso by Laura Sciacovelli p.166
Smack by Oscar Stevenson p.118
Artificial Evolution by Neil Rumming p.152

photo: Kevin Martin

Art
exit 7 Fw I90A7-Boing by Mark Dean p.18
Striptease by Tony Linkson p.48
Fred Tomaselli p.106
Bobby Helfer by Sean Mellyn p.126
Nicky Hoberman p.136
Fat Slag by Bump p.208
Mobile Home by Peter Gabriel p.264

4
Issue #2 · December 1998

Editorial:
Editors in Chief: Masoud Golsorkhi, Andreas Laeufer
Features Editor: Malu Halasa
Art Director: Andreas Laeufer
Guest Art Director: Kevin S
Arts Editors: Claire Canning, Anthony Wilson
Fashion Editors: Charty Durrant, Gianni Couji, Geriada Kefford
Jo Phillips, Yasmine Eslami
Editorial Assistant: Richard Christiansen
Top Dog: Julian Vogel
Heroic Will Power: Justine

This issue is dedicated to Tank-baby Laeufer

Public Relations: Carolyn Mac · Phone: 0171.837 03 00 · E-mail: pr@gotank.demon.co.uk

For subscription, advertising and business inquiries contact 0171.916 52 64

or E-mail: bill@gotank.demon.co.uk (for subscription details see page 292)

Tank strongly urges and demands unsolicited contributions; they must be accompanied with a self-addressed
stamped envelope if they are to be returned. Tank will not be held responsible for loss or damage in the post.
Tank is published six times a year by Tank publications Ltd. Reproduction of any material without written
permission of the publisher is an absolute no no. It is also assumed that model releases are obtained by the
photographer or contributor. The opinions expressed in Tank are that of the authors. Tank is in no way go!
responsible or liable for the accuracy of the information herein or any consequences arising from it. Now
you know.

Distribution by Art Data (44) 0181.747 10 61 and Seymour International Division (44) 0171.734 21 11

Printing and Repro by Williamson's Ltd.

Tank ISSN 1464-3472

PO Box 25319
London NW5 4ZD © Tank publications Ltd. 1998
Phone + Fax 0171.916 52 64
E-mail: editors@gotank.demon.co.uk Issue #3 · out February 1999

photo: Kevin Martin

This issue of Tank was made roadworthy with the kind assistance of Core London, Lti London,
Spring Studios and Nylon Gallery.

All processing and electronic imaging by Core London and all printing by Lti London.
-Core London Ltd.
27 Mount Pleasant, London WC1 AA · Tel 0171.833 33 90
-Lti London Ltd.
31 Clerkenwell Close, London EC1 OAT · Tel 0171.336 86 34

-Spring Studios · Tel 0171.267 83 83

-Nylon Gallery · Tel 0171.602 60 61
photos: Tim Bret-Day
11
12
14 15
styling: Alison Fitzpatrick
photographer assited by: Sarah Greenwood
make-up: Aimee Adams @ GSM using Club Monaco Cosmetics
hair: Matthew Cross @ Stuart Watts using Aveda
models: Lucia & Maddie @ Elite Premier
imaging: Lee Stuart 0171 434 1235
origami figures: Yuki

page 9
Pleat jacket by Gianluca Gabrielli.

page 10
Mohair sweater by Episode. Bra & briefs by Huit. Ankle boots by Olivier Theyskens.
Jacket by Olivier Theyskens. Briefs by La Senza. Boots by Marcel Marongiu.

page 11
Wool top by 0.918

page 12 + 13
Mohair sweater by Lawrence Steele. Skirt made to order from Simon Thorogood.
Shoes by Russell & Bromley.
Latex dress made to order from Mugler Trademark. Boots by Olivier Theyskens.

page 14 + 15
Backless top by Violet. Skirt by Donna Karan.
Zip back boots by Montana. Perspex cuff by Pauric Sweeney.
Trousers and matching jacket by Moschino Cheap & Chic.
Ankle boots by Patrick Cox.

page 17
Samur suit made to order by Tristan Webber at Koh Samui. Ankle boots by Gina.
17
Fw I90A7-BOING

art: Mark Dean

courtesy: Laurent Delaye Gallery, London

 men are over, women are over, children are confused Nowadays women are better at being men and cross-dressing businessmen feature
in car adverts. In a recent television documentary, average, Twenty-something shiny,
happy couples illustrated penetrative role reversal that was fascinating mostly
because of its so-what factor.

What is really brash, bold and scary is the new gender smorgasbord. Girlies with
whiskers, lady boys choosing to be surgically enhanced to fill bikinis in ways Raquel
Welch never could. With high-tech medical sorcery, girls no longer parade as boys.
Some of them have taken the radical step and stopped midway between male and
female. As a result the world is slowly being inhabited by a third sex - a menage of
chromosomes and strange desires.

Sometimes it can go horribly wrong. In 1967, John was eight-months old when his
hospital circumcision was botched. Advised by doctors that babies were sexually
third sex neutral, John's parents gave their permission and he underwent a clinical castration,
followed by other genital surgery and hormonal therapy, all in order to change him
into a happy little girl, Joan. She had a twin brother and the two children became
famous in American psychiatric annals. Joan's treatment became standard practice
for children born with ambiguous sexual identity or who experienced genital acci-
dents. Her case was cited by Seventies feminists to prove that gender was predi-
cated on cultural and psychological conditioning, not that old monster biology.

Last year the Archives of Adolescent and Pediatric Medicine revealed the truth
about Joan's childhood, which was fraught and difficult - the equivalent of brain-
washing gone awry. Despite taking female hormones, her original endocrine system
began giving her male attributes during puberty. At the age of thirteen, her father
finally revealed to her the secret of her medical history. More than angry, Joan felt
relieved. Recontructive surgery and male hormones returned her to his former self.

24 25
 the scam Medina, Ohio, is typical of a sleepy, midwestern small-town in the middle of
America’s Bible and snow belt. The red brick buildings around the 19th century
square house ice cream and coffee parlours and antique stores. There’s a ballet
school for little girls and an old fashioned city hall. By all rights nothing should hap-
pen here. Yet even out of the way towns like this are struck with modern day gen-
der confusion. The arrest of a fourteen-year old school boy who turned out to be a
22-year old woman made parents fearful for their teenage daughters. Detective
Scott Thomas from the Medina City Police Department relates the strange story of
David ‘Matt’ Chapman.

“Buckeye Middle School reported that a fourteen-year old was not going to school.
David ‘Matt’ Chapman had no proper identification, there were no custody papers,
so the principal was concerned that he might be a runaway or abducted. We have
an Ohio state law that when you move into a school district, you have 30 days to
provide custody papers, if you’re divorced, or a birth certificate. Neither was sup-
case in point plied by Matt or his guardian Patsy Geidt. Based on these problems I got a warrant
from the Medina County Juvenile Court to pick this person up and bring him in. I
went to the house and this person acted really strange.

He started crying, screaming and running around the house. Fourteen-year old boys
don’t act like that. Matt had very short hair. He was a little overweight. What was
interesting was that his hips were not that of a boy. That’s not being sexist. I work
with children all the time. So we brought him in and he was held overnight, because
we wanted to find out who he was.

Patsy Geidt who supposedly had custody of Matt was in her mid-Thirties and worked
as an mechanic for an airline out of Cleveland Hopkins Airport. She had transferred
from Baltimore, Maryland. She was divorced. She had met Matt with one of her
daughters at a roller-skating rink in Baltimore, and they became friends. Patsy
Geidt said they brought him home and he told them he had been sexually abused.
His mother had run away to London. He didn’t know where his father was.
Matt said he had been raised by a nanny. When I asked for her telephone number,
he said he didn’t have it, but he knew how to get hold of it. He said her name was
by Malu Halasa
26 27
 Dundas and she would call me. I got a phone-call from Margaret Dundas who con-
firmed his story. She had raised him and he had been sexually abused.
In the state of Ohio you can search juveniles. What this girl had done was taken
[support] bandages and wrapped her breasts extremely tight so you couldn’t feel
them. But I had my suspicions and I told the judge that this boy was a girl. So he
ordered a complete physical with a doctor. But each time Matt went to the doctor
and the doctor told him to take his pants down, he wouldn’t do it because he said
he had been physically abused. He said his mother’s boyfriend had made him per-
form oral sex on the boyfriend and on his German shepherd. So no doctor would
push it.
We said, we have to do something, so we asked the judge to commit him to a psy-
chiatric area to do a complete physical because his behaviour was getting more and
more bizarre. So the judge ordered Matt placed into a northeast Ohio assessment
area.
At first doctors thought that this was a male/female, a hermaphrodite. But then
after more testing, the doctor said this is 100 per cent female. In the interim I got
a call from a doctor who Matt and Patsy had consulted about a sex change opera-
tion. Dr. Baker from Cornell Medical Centre in New York City, had advised them
that an operation for such a young person is not normal. She had examined Matt
and he was 100 per cent female, but he believed himself to be a boy.
After the case had been going for five months, so many people were involved: the
children’s services, Medina PD, juvenile court, then there were the other jurisdic-
tions because Matt and Patsy had lived in two or three other places before going to
Baltimore, Maryland, and everyone’s scratching their heads, what the heck is going
on? Nothing is adding up with this kid. I went to the Chief, and said, ‘Chief this is
all screwed up. We have doctors telling us they think this is a boy trapped in a
girl’s body but it is a girl.’ I said, I don’t think it is a girl. I think it is an adult that
we’re dealing with. I think we’re dealing with some type of scam.
28
I went to Baltimore. My first stop was Baltimore County, where Matt said he had
been born. I pulled out all the files and birth certificates - no such person. Then I
went to the address where he said he had lived - no such address. Then I went to
his old schools, there was never anyone there by the name of David Matt Chapman.
Meanwhile he had been released and was back home in Medina. In the interim
when he had been going to school he had been in the boys’ locker rooms, he had
been kissing thirteen, fourteen-year old girls because all the kids thought he was a
fourteen-year old boy. His grades weren’t so good because he didn’t go to school
that often. I think he was bored. He went more for a social life, than anything else.
Then I spoke to Dr. New, head of pediatrics and intersex at New York University
Hospital. Matt had been sent to her because of her expertise. She had asked for
earlier photographs from him to prove he had been a little boy and the photos he
gave her appeared to be of someone else. Then he developed a fungus infection
under his breast and an anti-fungicide lotion was prescribed. Matt wouldn’t let any-
one apply it except for Patsy, which she did. Afterwards the nurse reported to Dr.
New that Patsy had walked out the room, looking ‘like she had seen a ghost.’ Patsy
said she never realised that Matt had such breasts.
When I contacted the Baltimore County police department I said I needed the
address of Margaret Dundas. When we had gotten to her house, she wasn’t home.
So I said, ‘Let’s go where Patsy Geidt lived before moving to Medina.’ So they take
us to a bunch of row houses where she lived and we’re knocking on doors. The best
thing about police work, if you want to find out the truth about somebody, talk to
the neighbours.
As I was talking to neighbours, a woman opened her door and said, ‘Come on over
here. I said, Ma’am can you tell me about Patsy, she used to live here, and she said,
‘Yeah she was kind of peculiar.’ Can you tell me about the young man with her?
She said, ‘That was no man, that was no boy,’ and I said tell me more. She said
that was a girl who graduated from high school a few years ago and was mas-
querading as a boy. How do you know that Ma’am? ‘Because my son used to live
29
 next door as a neighbour to her parents.’ I said who would that be, she said, ‘the
Dundases.’
I learned that Margaret Dundas was cooking at a volunteer fire department. We
went there and I read her rights. She started crying and admitted she and her
daughter had made the whole thing up. Matt’s real name is Penny Dundas. They
had done it so Penny wouldn’t have to be a woman any more. She wanted to start
over again as a boy to grow up to be a man.
The mother gave me the impression that she wanted her daughter to be happy, and
if being a boy was going to make her happy then the mother would go along with
that. Mrs. Dundas was fifty, and I think there was some indication of some abuse
by the father in the family - more mental abuse, than sexual. Margaret Dundas did
not want her husband to know any of this. I got the feeling that the mother was try-
ing to hide the story because of what had gone on inside the family.
When Penny graduated from high school she was totally unhappy with who she was.
It had to do with sexual reasons, but also with financial reasons. I don’t think she
wanted to work. It was easier to be young and not have a job. According to peo-
ple in Baltimore, as soon as she graduated from high school, she started changing
her appearance, becoming male and telling people she met out at night that she was
a thirteen-year old male.
When I returned to Medina, I arrested Penny for obstructing official business and
she swore that she was a he. In fact I showed her a graduation picture from high
school.
I believe that Patsy Geidt didn’t know that Matt was in fact a female. According
to her older daughter, Matt slept in Patsy’s bed. There could have been some type
of sexual relation, but both Patsy and Matt steadfastly denied it. I’m not so sure.
They stayed together in that house. I spoke to Patsy’s ex-husband who said that she
seemed infatuated with this young man.
30
From my perspective it seemed like a scam. Matt and Patsy knew what they were
doing, but they didn’t want anybody else to know what they were doing. I don’t
think it was for their own gain, but for Matt’s own gain.
The mother felt this was what her daughter needed to do. For Patsy, she genuinely
cared for Matt and wanted to do what was right for him. If you ever talked to Matt
you would find that he could be pretty compelling and make people feel for him -
that his life was in fact terrible. Not only was he trying to convince you he was try-
ing to convince himself. Everything was desperate to him.
Could it have been a male trapped in a female body? Certainly. It could have been
a total sexual misunderstanding with himself, who he was, who she was, it could
have been. Every story didn’t match up. Matt plead no contest to obstructing offi-
cial business and was placed on official probation with municipal court here in
Medina for a year and a half. After that she and Patsy left for Tampa, Florida.
The kids who had gone to school with Matt were very upset. They felt that Matt
had betrayed them. Parents were coming in here asking if Matt was a sexual
deviant because he kissed their daughters. The parents thought he was targeting
them or that he was a sexual deviant. I said I didn’t believe that. It wasn’t about
them, it was about him.
This what I told Penny Dundas: if you want to be female, if you want to be male,
you have every right in the world to do that. I’m not here telling you whatever your
sexual desire to be, you can do that but you can’t do that as a kid. The school sys-
tem is for kids and, no matter how you look at it, you’re an adult. I showed her
birth certificate to her. When I arrested her she was 22-years old.
Penny knew children would get more of the benefit of the doubt. It was because of
the age she was pretending to be that people were willing to protect her.”
31
 last of the sworn virgins

case in point

text + photos by: Judah Passow · courtesy of Network

32
 Stana Cerovic was raised as a man because her father had no sons. In other
European countries this wouldn’t be a tragedy, but in Montenegro in the 1930s it
was tantamount to throwing everything away because of the patrilinear laws regard-
ing inheritance and succession. The family land could only pass into the hands of
male children. When Stana was born there were three or four families in the same
village who were facing a similar problem, so they made a pact among themselves
to raise their daughters - all of whom had been born in the same year - as men.
Stana is the last surviving tobelija or Sworn Virgin. She started chewing tobacco
when she was five and went to school with other boys. Because of how she was raised
- as a man - she says she prefers the company of men to the company of women.
She thinks women are too frivolous and talk a lot of nonsense, and that men talk
about substance, about hunting and protecting their herds from wolves. She’s into
hunting and gathering, and lives by herself on top of a mountain.
She’s never denied the fact that she’s a woman, she just hasn’t lived a woman’s life.
She has always acted like a man. When she was asked if she ever had sex or love
affairs, she said she had sworn to her father on his death-bed she would never marry.
She would continue down the road he had set her on. The implications were she
would never betray the secret of her true sex.
One evening we were sitting around and she was asked if there was anything she was
afraid of. She thought for a minute and said, yes, that when she dies they’ll bury
her in a dress. Because at the end of the day, despite what the villagers say, they
still regard her as a woman.

She’s very close to her sister who lives down in the village and there’s a fondness
between herself and the other village women but there is absolute acceptance of
Stana as a man. There is also a kind of arrogance. The men say that she’s the best
shot in the village. Whenever there’s a wolf prowling around, attacking any of the
cattle, the call goes out to go get Stana because they know she can find and shoot
the marauding animal. Whenever Stana comes down from the mountain to buy pro-
visions she always drops into this particular bar, which is a traditionally men-only
place. As soon as she walks through the door everybody moves over a chair to make
space for her.

You can see that she’s a woman. She wears a sweater and it’s obvious that she’s
never worn a bra. Her hair is in a woman’s short haircut, not a man’s haircut.
34
 transcience According to eastern philosophers, permanence was always an illusion. That suits us
westerners well. Old car? Change it! Old house, old partner, old nose, old gut! Change
them! Certainly change comes with a price-tag attached, but, if material change is
the beating heart of a consumer economy, then psychological change — every day in
every way, I’m getting better and better! — is its soul.

That change often has subversive qualities isn’t exactly news, although the way that
a loosely-knit group of artists, filmmakers and performers use change perhaps is.
Think of Orlan’s endless series of transformative operations. Her next, to coincide
with the millennium, will be to construct a new nose that extends from the top of her
forehead downwards. In Mona Hatoum’s womb-like installations, you can watch
films of her intra-bodily processes, or Helen Chadwick’s stirring cellular pictures,
every bit as stirring and strange as an unmapped landscape, which, in a sense, they
are. The world culture has, for centuries, set a premium on the appearance of
point women’s bodies in as much as they can be changed to fit some kind of political or
aesthetic ideal. The modern cosmetic surgery industry - reconstructive uses apart -
owes much in figurative terms to older practices of foot-binding, infibulation and
corsetry. It’s no surprise that some women are now exploring a different kind of
alteration altogether and becoming men.

Or not, as the case may be. This is precisely what, in London, Austrian filmmaker
Hans Scheirl and American photographer Del la Grace Volcano are presently
involved with: fucking with gender. Pharmaceutical-grade testosterone injections
have produced subtle changes, but changes nonetheless. The first is tall, suited, with
a pencil moustache, the second one compact and muscular. Their voices have broken.
And the effect? There’s something simultaneously familiar yet strange about them; a
feeling of deja vu. It’s disturbing; of course, it’s meant to be. Their existence — let’s
not forget that neither of them are transsexuals seeking complete gender
by Louise Gray
36 37
 reassignment — overturns the most basic assumptions. Generally speaking, biologi-
cal sex is the first point of identification humans make of each other. A man. A
woman. Even boyish girls and girlish boys, however they play about with the con-
structs of gender, are recognisable as such. While we’re used to the image of the
male-to-female transgressor, there’s something about the image of its converse — a
female-to-male change — that startles. Is it because it offends deep-seated atavistic
prejudices which dictate that a seen dynamism should be the preserve of men? Or
that, in seeming to prop up those old dual-gender ideas, such transformations runs
counter to everything feminism fought for?
Simply, no. The first is the type of expected response to something that seems so
strange; the second — the idea of joining the oppressor — might hold some water if
the transformations — transmogrifications, even — were an end in themselves. But
they aren’t. It seems that the emphasis in Scheirl and Grace’s work lies, just as it does
in Orlan, Hatoum and others, in its focus on transgression in the service of transience.
In dispensing with gender fixity, their work — their body of work, one might say —
occupies a playful arena in which transition and polymorphous perversity are the rule,
rather than the exception. Aristotle may have classified man as a zoon politikon,
political animal, but Dutch historian Huizinga went one further in his description of
us as homo ludens, playful man.
It’s interesting to speculate where such playfulness will end. Maybe it won’t. As a con-
cept, transience has no sense of end: it is a journey of its own. It’s real fun is not just
that it dispenses with all absolutes, but it shows how easily they crumble. Maleness
and femaleness may be fixed by chromosomes, but we all have a proportion of both
male and female hormones: and just watch what happens when you feed one person
a larger share of the other’s sex hormones. Women grow beards and men lose theirs;
skin textures and outward drives change. It’s extraordinary to see how close the
38
opposite sex is to us all. It’s contained within our chemical possibilities.
Not surprisingly, such changes has always provoked little eruptions of anxiety in the
culture at large. Whenever women agitated for the right to vote/enter
professions/wear trousers, they were denounced as unnatural, with the stress, quiet
often overtly made, that such things were masculinising. Those battles — at least in
the west — have now largely been won, but it could be easily suggested that the dif-
ferentials that still exist between male and female, pay and employment opportuni-
ties, owe something to these continuing anxieties. It’s also possible to read sci-fi
themes — from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis to every episode of Star Trek — as stories
fuelled with the same anxieties. Cyborg identities, which, incidentally, people
Scheirl’s singularly unique film, Dandy Dust, represent the same blurring techniques
as do the gender revolutionaries. It’s probably no coincidence that those mid-Eighties
robot films — Robocop, Terminator chief among them — featured stars who were
so aggressively butch in their masculine masquerade. Just what did they have to
prove? So much, so very much.
Plato had a nice idea about what the sexes are: they were both once, he supposed, a
unit consisting of one male, one female and a single soul. Separated, our lonely fate
was to wander the world looking for our lost pair. It might be fun to tie the gender
fuckers, the transients, into the idea of Platonic ideals, but that’s just a romantic
temptation, tied up with the ribbons of classical thought. Perhaps their play of sur-
faces in an interior narcissism is born out of some kind of bisexual self-sufficiency.
But this, too, provides no real solution. Rather, look to the players on the limits of
our societies. They may not get written up in the history books, but it’s they who, in
their marginal lives, define and focus the dominant culture that surrounds them.
39
photos: Eva Mueller @ Wilde
styling: Cheryl Konteh · hair: Gerardo de Malo @ Bladerunner
make-up: Linda Burns · model: Panu @ Take 2 · photographers assistant: Grant
strip...

art: Tony Linkson · images of: Jo Dillon

48 49
50 51
52 53
54
...tease
55
photos: Le Click! Rusch

57
59
 photos: Barnaby + Scott
styling: Geriada Kefford

Dress by Viktor & Rolf

61
Tunic by Hussein Chalayan Skirt by Vivienne Westwood
 Dress by Alexander McQueen

64 65
Hat by Stephen Jones Hat by Stephen Jones

Vest
66 &knickers by Emporio Armani · Coat by Moschino
 Skirt by Hussein Chalayan

Dress by Bruce · Socks & pumps by Issey Miyake model: Stephen @ Take 2 · grooming: James O´Reilly

Vintage (80´s) dress by Hysteric Glamour 69

styling assistant: Cynthia Lawrence-John
 Jackie Joyeux gave me these clogs in 1975. They’re unusual because the leather has
engravings in it. I haven’t worn them for years, so long that they’ve come back into
fashion. We used to go shop-lifting together but these clogs she paid for. You can pol-
ish them and they get darker. She got them from a woman who made them, some-
where near Biarritz.

Jackie’s left eye was weird; the pupil shot off in odd directions and wouldn’t focus.
She’d stabbed it with scissors when she was a child, sewing. All they seemed to do in
her house in Guethary was sew. There were always patterns laid out on tables, balls
of coloured thread ready, pinning sessions happening. What did your mother say? I
asked her. She screamed, said Jackie, and took me to hospital. I least I can still see
with it.

It didn’t stop her being attractive, in a dark untidy way, and this was increased by
her permanent unhappiness. Her fiance Chris, a surfer, had gone back to England and
never wrote. “It may seem like I don’t want sex,” she told me, “but I do. All the
time.”
surfer
It was meeting the right men to supply it that was difficult, though in some ways there
was no shortage: Guethary, Biarritz, St Jean de Luz - all those places were full of big
blond American or Australian hunks, catching waves through Europe. “Every coun-
try, they speak a different language, even when it’s really small. You cross the bor-
der and you’re in a whole different culture,” said Steve. Jackie’s sister had screwed
him. We visited him in a tiny bed and breakfast room where he lay on the bed, sur-
rounded by surfing magazines and talking about perfect waves, hollow tubes and
Mark Richards and the Fish. Jackie’s sister spoke no English, so his conversation was
immaterial.

We lived in Bordeaux, in a flimsy apartment on the Place du Marche des Grands

by Markie Robson-Scott Hommes. Jackie was a student, I taught English conversation in two primary schools.
70 71
I specialised in the lyrics of Bob Dylan, which I xeroxed for the classes. We listened
to ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ on the portable record player and then painstakingly
read it aloud. “Where have you been, my blue-eyed son?” demonstrated the use of
the hyphen in compound adjectives. Sometimes we’d do ‘Angie’ by the Rolling Stones
instead. So far, no-one had complained.
Our landlady, a widow with rouged cheeks and dried-up bleached hair, owned a flower
shop downstairs. We shared a kitchen and bathroom on the other side of the stair-
well with two English girls, Brenda and Claire. Brenda got up an hour earlier than
necessary for her job as lectrice at the university in order to apply make-up. While it
was still black outside she tilted her face lovingly to her magnifying mirror under the
harsh neon light in the kitchen. Twice a week I had to get up early for my job and
she was always there already. The kitchen smelt strange before daybreak. I’d gulp
down coffee and rush out to get the bus.
It was worth it; men found her fascinating. Jackie had friends in Brenda’s class who
reported back. Her French was almost accentless, unlike mine - after six months the
lady in the bakery still stared at me icily and asked me to repeat my daily order of a
baguette and a pain au raisin. Brenda worked hard at everything and did nothing to
excess, besides worry. We tried to dismiss her as being too straight to be jealous of.
Claire was dumpy, with an obsequious boyfriend called Kevin; she suffered from indi-
gestion and spent hours at the doctor’s surgery, getting sick notes. They tolerated
Jackie, who I had invited to stay when she was thrown out of her lodgings. She had
a foam mattress on the floor in my room, behind a partition that the landlady had
put up. Nothing was finished in our half of the apartment - the landlady’s renovations
were at a standstill - while Claire and Brenda’s was luxurious: carpets, shower, wall-
paper. Since Jackie had moved in, I’d started looking forward to coming home
instead of dreading it. We shared an expensive tube of instant suntan cream, went to
movies and drank bright green Perroquets in a large, impersonal cafe nearby.
At night the square was a beat for high-class prostitutes. We knew two of them,
Sheila and Dusty. One night after several Perroquets we started talking to them.
Sheila was young, with a perfect blonde bob; if she hadn’t worn so much make-up,
she would have been pretty. She was saving money to open a beauty parlour and move
back home to the south. Occasionally she and Dusty, who was red-haired and blowsi-
er, came up to our room for coffee, usually when Stuart and Pete, also English teach-
ers, more conscientious ones than me, were there. They were gallant and flattering
and their foreignness put the girls at ease. Sheila sat with her legs folded at an ele-
gant angle, her hands in her lap, smiling politely, showing appreciation of everything,
even two franc red wine out of small plastic bottles. She sent money to her mother
every week. Dusty was older and more cynical.
At weekends Jackie went home. Finally she asked me to go with her, one day after
we’d had an exciting shop-lifting spree. As we walked through the grey streets we
talked pleasurably about why we did it - a substitute for sex? Not enough love from
our parents? We knew how disapproving Stuart and Pete would be, and that made
us even gladder. Our haul included records - she just piled them into a plastic bag
while the assistant looked on blankly - several antique white camisoles taken from
under the eyes of two dear old ladies, and a rolled-up bulk of lace. The next day we
got up early, got the bus out to Pessac and started hitching. A silent man in Mercedes
took us most of the way; he played Neil Diamond non-stop for two hours but we did-
n’t feel we could complain.
At home her mother and sister Jocelyn were sitting round the garden table. Her moth-
er, Janine, was well preserved and irritable. She complained about Jackie’s dirty
jeans, the sewing she was forced to do in order to get extra money to pay for Jackie’s
course books, the way the neighbours looked down on her because she didn’t have a
man, and the awfulness of Guethary’s shops compared to Pau’s, where she’d once
lived so happily. At the winding path there was a sign with Les Trois Js in curly black
handwriting. Everything was green and lush; that summer it rained a lot.
Her mother had cooked piperade - green and red peppers, Bayonne ham, eggs
scrambled in at the end. We dipped baguettes in it and drank white wine. I tried to
think of something interesting to say but their conversation centred on people I did-
n’t know. It was like hundreds of other mealtimes I’d had in France, when everyone
spoke so fast and fluently you couldn’t butt in for fear of sounding idiotically slow.
Jocelyn’s baby, Christa, woke up and she brought her down. Bonjour, mon petit ange,
said Janine. Jocelyn didn’t know who the father was. Probably an American surfer,
Jackie thought; their mother had been angry at first, but now she’d calmed down and
adored her grandchild. After coffee it started to rain and we went inside. Janine went
to the sewing machine to get to work on the lace; Jocelyn did yoga while Jackie
played with Christa. The room was bare and beige and we sat on the floor. Strange
popping noises came from Jocelyn’s vagina after she did a headstand. She seemed
very adult, with a mysterious, powerful other life connected to her baby.
We left Christa with Janine and drove with Jocelyn to a place where American surfers
were camping. She’d been with them during the week, sleeping with one and then dri-
ving with him to different beaches, looking out at the grey waves as he passed judge-
ment. It had been raining on and off for days, said Ray, the best looking and most
talkative. We sat in his tent cross-legged while he lounged on a sleeping bag. His
thick American socks were balled up in pigskin hiking boots. “So what do you do
when it rains?” I asked. “Play solitaire”, he replied. “You don’t even play with each
other?” I said. He laughed, so did Jocelyn. I felt encouraged. At least I spoke fluent
English, the surfer language. That evening we got dressed up to go to a bar called
Lucky’s. Jackie and I wore our stolen camisoles with blue jeans; Jocelyn looked stat-
uesque in a long white dress, trimmed by now with some of the lace. “It looks much
better,” said Jocelyn appreciatively. Lucky’s was hot and packed; everyone looked
blonde except Jackie and me. A seething mass of beery bodies rippled. I saw Ray,
carrying full glasses. Jocelyn found her friends and Jackie and I stood together at the
bar. I felt stiff and English and my voice refused to carry over the loud music. My
stomach was bloated and I could hardly breathe. At last the bar closed and we were
outside in the starless dark. Someone had a car and people piled in, sitting on strange
laps, talking in French and English. The small weasely man beneath me lit a joint; I
sucked it down into my lungs and felt panic rise. He ran his hand up my leg. Jackie
was in the back seat chatting to an old school friend. “His folks are so rich. You
should visit him tomorrow. He has this incredible ping-pong TV game.” I wondered
if I was going to be sick. I turned to Jackie and said I wanted to walk home. The car
stopped.
Stars came out as we climbed the hill to Les Trois Js. No-one was about apart from
an ugly white dog that limped away when it saw us. Jackie talked about Chris, about
the apartment they’d shared in Bordeaux, how she’d spent weeks in Cornwall with
him, how his family had welcomed her. I’d heard it all before. How could he have
done it? she asked. For a long time she thought there’d been a mistake, that the let-
ter had got lost, that he was ill, or dead. But a friend had seen him surfing on a
Cornwall beach. He just didn’t care, or he’d met someone else.
Later we sat on her bed and drank whisky, watching the dark branches of the trees
swaying. Probably tomorrow the weather would be beautiful, but I had to go back to
Bordeaux for an English class at midday. I’d prepared nothing; it was back to the
record player and ‘The Times They Are A Changing’. My stomach felt hollow at the
thought of the kids’ eager faces. Jackie was staying onto help her mother sew a suit
for a neighbour. I left before anyone was up, taking a croissant to eat on the path.
The white dog dashed barking from a house on the way to the main road. He came
at me in a sideways motion and bit me on the leg, not hard enough to draw blood
though.
photos: Alan Mahon
78
 loosing ground

photos: Donovan Wylie

courtesy of Donovan Wylie / Magnum Photos London & 4th Estate London
82 83
84 85
87
»I think D´s work goes well to bridge a gap between different cultures.

Missing the potential energy that is just below the surface of daytoday life.«

89
91
»What pisses me off, mates dying, waking up every morning feeling shit, arguing with Laura,

taking shit off people in the streets for the way I look.

What doesn´t piss me off: hanging about with mates drinking and taking drugs, going to gigs

and parties, getting tattoos, looking after Tommie sometimes and driving when get it together

to get a car and stay sober.«

92 93
94 95
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98 99
101
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art: Fred Tomaselli @ Nylon
 the camera never lies While she was watching television in a Californian hospital, recovering from an acci-
dent that had left her a paraplegic, Ruth Shulman saw herself in a programme
called On The Scene: Emergency Response. She had no way of knowing that the
paramedic who rescued her had worn a microphone. A cameraman on the helicopter
ambulance had taped the frantic trip to the hospital. After watching the programme,
Shulman said she feared that her daughter or her mother, an avid TV watcher,
would some day see a rerun and hear her begging to die.

“They took one of the most tragic moments of my life and made it entertainment
for the nation,” she told a court when she sued for invasion of privacy. Even worse,
she said, the broadcast created a mental picture of a scene that her mind had
blocked out. Before watching the programme, her first memory after the accident
had been of waking up in intensive care.

Much of the footage used in these programmes comes from ‘stringers’, freelance
cameramen who work the graveyard shift across urban America. They spend their
nights in vans, glued to police scanners and rush to the scene of gory crimes. They
are viewed by critics as journalistic vultures who profit from the misery of others.
Gary Arnote, the head of one of Los Angeles’ largest stringer agencies disagrees,
i spy “The stations are giving the public what it wants - dead bodies. The public wants
sensational journalism, whether its the O.J. Simpson trial, blood and guts or wife-
beatings. We’re getting more into entertainment as far as the news goes, and that
entertainment is part of what makes us so successful.”

It takes a particular type of person to be this kind of cameraman, to detach them-

selves from the dying and the dead on the other side of the lens. One stringer says
that they are different from normal people, “I guess I am a little demented because
when I look at a clip of a suicide, I think, this is some great footage!” Another says
“Sometimes I think about the victims and everything as props. It’s not real to me.
I just take the pictures and move on.” During the LA riots, stringers cruised around
by Venice Allan with cameras in one hand and shotguns in the other.
108 109
 The public’s appetite for viewing real life is not satisfied only with crime shows and
celebrity scandal: people want to see other sides of life that cannot be filmed open-
ly. Hidden camera reports have burgeoned in recent years, as modern miniature
recording devices have made it possible for filmmakers to go undercover and record
sound and video undetected.

When I was small I had a paranoid belief that everything I did or even thought was
being recorded and viewed by my parents and teachers. Growing up in the late 20th
century it seemed that this very fear was technologically possible. It was probably
this conspiracy fantasy that lead me to a black-and-white circuit-board pinhole cam-
era. Connected to a Video Eight Walkman, it is portable and enables me to make
spy videos.

Since I started using it I have learnt, through trial and error, how to instinctively
aim it in the right place. At first I discovered that I was filming the tops of build-
ings or peoples’ feet, instead of their faces. Part of the process of learning how to
spy is finding the best place to conceal the camera. I began with it pointing out of
a hole in my breast pocket but I soon discovered that this offered me little flexibili-
ty as then I could only film what was directly in front of me. I became overly con-
scious of my movements, as I attempted to frame what I wanted to be in the shot.

The most common place to hide these modern miniatures is in hats or wigs, as that
allows you to capture what you are looking at. But since I don’t wear hats, or wigs,
this inhibited me from behaving normally, an important factor in spying on people.
The more natural you can act and feel, the less likely you are to be discovered. The
best solution that I found is poking the lens out of a hole in a small black rucksack.
This way I can point it where I like and am not strung up with wires connecting the
camera to the Walkman and battery pack.

By having my camera hidden I was able to record life in the city without the sub-
jects realising what I was doing. I could film situations, events, mannerisms and
110
 conversations that were not set-up for the benefit of my camera. It felt exciting to
spy with my camera, and most of all, powerful. Early on it became clear that I would
try to avoid filming children as that seemed perverted. Voyeurism is an erotic activ-
ity. A businessman was arrested recently for hiding a spy camera in his briefcase
and pointing it up girls’ skirts on the London Underground. Some people film their
one night stands. A boy I know supposedly has a video camera that pokes out of his
chest of drawers to record his sexual encounters for his mates.
While I was secretly filming I felt I was overstepping the boundary of acceptable
social behaviour. It was partly this that has made me stop, at least temporarily.
Although I never once used my camera in a private situation, it seemed an abuse of
trust to spy, even in public places, where we were all being filmed by security cam-
eras anyway. I was never discovered, but if someone had confronted me after notic-
ing the lens I would have been ashamed and unable to justify the intrusion.
Is it justifiable to record people without their knowledge or consent? In a case from
last year, parents suspected by social services of physically abusing their children
were secretly filmed in a Stoke-on-Trent hospital. The results were shocking as fears
were confirmed - 38 of the 39 children under surveillance were taken into care and
the parents prosecuted. The cameras provided indisputable evidence of abuse, and
in this case the invasion of privacy seems justified. But where should this end?
Would it be reasonable to secretly install cameras into the homes of suspected pae-
dophiles? What about people suspected of other crimes, drug dealers, for example?
In our quest to clean up society how far are we prepared to sacrifice civil liberties?
Stores like the Counter Spy Shop in London’s Tottenham Court Road and Los
Angeles’ Wilshire Boulevard stock devices that encourage you to track or spy on
your partner. One woman had a camera rigged to her marital bed that was triggered
every time the weight on the mattress exceeded her own 125 pounds.
Another big seller at these stores is the “nannycam”, a discreet camera specially
112
designed to videotape your childminder and make sure she’s not neglecting or abus-
ing your little ones. Along with cameras, which are hidden in smoke-detectors, tele-
phones, radios and wall clocks, you can also buy especially tailored nannycams hid-
den in teddy-bears.
As distasteful as this seems, it is interesting to note that in a survey conducted by
an American magazine for parents, 70 per cent of those who bought these products
fired their childminder due to something they saw on the tape. In California, it is an
illegal invasion of privacy to record someone’s words without their knowledge but
there is no such ban on videotaping someone’s image in your home, without consent.
If Louise Woodward had been nannycammed, it is unlikely that the parents employ-
ing her would have continued using her services.
Surveillance cameras are not a modern invention. Early models included a timer
device - an intervalometer - that triggered the camera to take photographs at pre-
set intervals. With the introduction of video it became possible to record 24-hours
a day, and they have become standard security measures.
There are now surveillance cameras all over Britain - on busy roads to control traf-
fic, in dangerous housing estates to protect tenants, in shops and malls to curb shop-
lifting - as well as car parks, lifts, public transport, public lavatories, hospitals,
schools, offices, parks and beaches. The sharpest close circuit televisions, CCTVs,
are so sophisticated that they can read a government health warning on a pack of
cigarettes 100 metres away and capture the license plate of a car going up to 120
miles per hour. They can rotate through 360 degrees, peer around corners and see
clearly in the dark.
Now we are promised satellite spy cameras, way out of the range of the human eye,
that can zoom into Earth so closely that you can read newspaper headlines on the
footage they send back.
113
Although we are usually told when there is CCTV in operation, the cameras
themselves are often hidden or even if they are in view it is difficult to determine
where they are pointing and impossible to know what they are focused on.

Perhaps surprisingly, the British public appears to support the installation of CCTV.
In Scotland, where some of the first systems were set-up a decade ago, surveys sug-
gest that almost 90 per cent of people approved of public surveillance projects, with
fewer than ten per cent saying the cameras infringed on their privacy. Only five per
cent strongly opposed an extension of CCTV. Strathclyde Police, who describe the
scheme as “a vital modern tool in the fight against crime” insist that, rather than
attacking civil rights, surveillance cameras increase public freedom. “They enhance
opportunities for people to enjoy public places,” said a spokesperson.

George Orwell’s 1984 inevitably comes to mind: a society where privacy and free-
dom are privileges from the past because secret cameras and microphones are hid-
den everywhere and viewed by the Thought Police. Some think we are going beyond
that with CFR - Computerised Face Recognition - a camera system developed in the
US that scans faces in a crowd at the rate of 20 a second. Then these can be
matched to a databank of up to one million mugshots. The bank of digital images
can also be used to identify you the next time your face pops up again.

CCTV, especially with the help of CFR, could be used to harass groups who are con-
sidered a potential threat to public order, such as young people, ethnic minorities
and political activists. In his book, Big Brother: Britain’s Web Of Surveillance,
Simon Davies writes, “What is happening is nothing short of an orchestrated effort
to bring the public to heel. Our movements, transactions and personality are becom-
ing known in a way that Orwell could scarcely have imagined.”

If the idea of Big Brother is scary, imagine Big Mother. In the US, CCTV has
recently been taken further into the realm of “cyber surveillance”. Preschools are
planning to broadcast the footage from their security cameras over the Internet so
115
 families can monitor their children. Parents get a web address, a user name and a
password to access the site. Once parents log on, they can click a button and flip
from camera to camera, looking at still photographs that are updated every few sec-
onds. The first online preschool system was launched last spring with a pilot pro-
gramme at a private day care centre in Connecticut. With cameras installed in class-
rooms and play areas, parents can locate their children while they are at work. One
mother said, “Every half-hour, I check in to see where my daughter is. I watch her
have lunch every day.”
Andrew Leonard, an author who follows technology, is disgusted, “This speaks to a
lack of trust in human relations and a basic flaw of our society. If you depend on the
web to monitor your child, you’re abdicating personal responsibility for the situation.
It’s better to drop by the school for half an hour than be a looming eye in the back-
ground.” An argument against this type of surveillance is that it sets a precedent
for a generation of kids who will grow up thinking that surveillance is normal.
Thousands of people use camera and computer set-ups, turning the web into a
voyeuristic realm for the bored. One of the first and most famous web sites of this
nature is Jennicam which was the inspiration for the film The Truman Show. Every
three minutes stills of 21-year old Jennifer Ringley can be downloaded, for a price.
She has a Connectix QuickCam camera in her bedroom, her kitchen and by her com-
puter. She says that nowadays she hardly ever pays attention to the camera, or to
the world beyond it. Every week her site receives more than 100 million hits. Jenni
says that what she does is not pornography. She is just living a private life for all to
see, she explains somewhat contradictorily.
It is only a decade since the first CCTV schemes were introduced, while most pre-
sent systems were installed in the last three years. Cameras are now accepted as a
reality of modern crime prevention. The “you’ve got nothing to worry if you’ve got
nothing to hide” mentality has been sold to the public and surveillance operations
are widely supported. As cameras are introduced into new places we shall have to
116
adapt to being observed throughout our lives.
CCTV is the purest documentary of all. There is much that can be learnt from
observing the way people really behave. Just as the real story is more fascinating
than one made up, real characters are more complex and real gestures always more
beautiful than premeditated poses. We are seduced by glossy images of models in
studio sets as we spend significant chunks of our lives watching TV. With the advent
of virtual reality, movies will surround us and we will be able to trick our brains into
believing what we are experiencing is reality. The average person spends a quarter
of the waking day in front of the television screen. As technology becomes more pow-
erful, it will have an even stronger grip and the need to compare real life alongside
the imaginary will become even more necessary than it is today.
The problem with surveillance filming, for security purposes or for art, is that in so
much footage it’s easy to get lost. In high-tech control rooms around the world, tele-
vision screens are being ignored by guys too bored to pay attention. Most of the secu-
rity guards I spoke to admitted that the footage from their cameras is only really
used after an incident has been reported, for evidence in court. I also found that after
my own spying I ended up with hours of tapes that I often never looked at. The idea
of reliving an afternoon was unbearable.
117
smack

photos: Oscar Stevenson @ Hughes Behrendt

121
123
styling: Sarah Richardson @ Hughes Behrendt
make-up: Angela Cheung
hair: Geraldine Kektati @ Terri M
Thanks to Stacey @ Models 1 & Saskia @ Storm
125
art: Sean Mellyn @ Nylon
127
 styling: Giannie Couji
make-up: Karl Berndsen using Origins
hair: Frenchie using Goldwell

Coat by Maria Grachvogel · Bra by B.H.S & Knickers by Antoni & Alison
photos: Dmon Prunner
Coat by Fred Sathal · Bra by Guillermina Baeza & Knickers by B.H
Tunic by Thierry Mugler Top & skirt by Maria Grachvogel
 Dress by Yoichi Nagasawa (left)
Lace top by Owen Gaster (left) · Dress by Iceberg
Dress by Massimo Maltetti
art: Nicky Hoberman @ Entwistle
138 139
 photos: Gavin Fernandes

creative direction: C G Sanderson @ A&R All clothing & fabric from Liberty
hair: Leslie McMenamin using Aveda with thanks to Carol @ John Adams Studio and Nicholas Sullivan @ Liberty
make-up: Christian McCulloch using Ruby & Millie
models: Jenny, James Coffee ! Storm, Steven Richardson @ Take 2 Sweater by Alexander McQueen. Coat and hooded liner by Manderina Duck
Cardigan by Masaki Matsushima Dress by Alexander McQueen, Cardigan by Yohji Yammamoto
image: Iko Ouro Preto
hip hop don´t stop

photos: Kai Wiechmann

147
No GAP KIDS ad this — in the Turkish clubs and gyms of Berlin, veteran body slammers

now venerable in their Thirties pass on the noble art to a new generation.

149
151
 artificial evolution

art: Neil Rumming · words: Lesley Ackland

152
The Rubenesque, classical figures in Neil Rumming’s series Artificial Evolution are
impersonal, disturbing and, to some, downright ugly. Using recognisable classical
forms and figures, from the Three Graces to Michelangelo’s David, soft skin and
unblemished beauty have been replaced by grotesque, rippling sinew and stretched
skin of body-builders. While Rumming sees his work as part of an essentially mod-
ern movement that combines state of the art computer manipulation and the cur-
rent obsession with the human body, his images are a sick collage of past and pre-
sent, part-18th century, neo-classical painting, Space Oddity and Borg technology.

His muscle people, embryonic and swathed less in muscle than in some abstract
Comme des Garcon Japanese wrap, are curiously introspective like real body-
builders whose whole universes are, first, their own chests, biceps and triceps and
then the other chests, biceps and triceps they compete against.

On closer inspection it’s almost impossible to tell which muscle groups are used.
Rumming’s basic technique is cut and paste. We’re not looking at bodies, but body
parts, and in this way his art reflects the modern sensibility that has come to gov-
ern our own physical forms. For better or for worse someone like Cher has totally
manipulated her body. If you’re old and you’ve got lines on your face, no-one’s going
to love you. Aging and change; we were born to die but fighting against the odds
to stay perpetually healthy requires a scientific adeptness peculiar to our age.

In a short introduction to his photographs Rumming points out that superbody

Arnold Schwarzenegger underwent a heart operation for an aortic valve and was
probably given tissue from a pig. Inside we’re a jumble of species, on the outside,
we look more and more like each other, nearly interchangeable or at least this is the
155
 message from pop culture. So much of it has become just bodies. All Saints and the
Spice Girls are women who look and stand alike, with their mouths wide open.

This objectification of the human body is age old. Men look at women as body parts,
homosexuals look at other homosexuals as body parts. It’s easier to use someone
as a breast or a penis. Multiple murderers destroy their victims’ faces because they
want to destroy their personalities. Rumming’s people are without personality, spir-
it or soul.

Their manipulated ugliness raises questions about obsessive narcissism and imper-
sonal love. One American body-builder had such an overwhelming sex drive because
of his intake of anabolic steroids that he regularly copulated with hotel soft drink
vending machines. He even had a favourite one - a Coke machine in Chicago. But
what Rumming’s work really reminds me of is the bits you’d find in a serial killer’s
fridge freezer.

156
 photos: Jonathan West

158
161
163
 styling: Maria Serra
hair: Moose · make-up: Angela Cheung
models: Nancy Hagaan & Susanne Crozier @ Select

clothes: Burlingtons, comme de Garcon, Givenchy, Gucci, Hermes,

H.Samuel, Junya Watanabe, Miu Miu, Stella McCartney
164 165
photos: Laura Sciacovelli
168 169
images: Thierry van Biesen
 Oh, for the good old days of “waiter, waiter there’s a fly in my soup.”
Mr. Sainsbury, there’s half a mouse in my tin of baked beans. How about fish genes
in your salad tomatoes, human DNA in your salmon, a selection of chromosomes
from chickens, scorpions and rats in your baked potato?
Is genetically modified food an apocalypse waiting to happen?

Still hungry?

From the test-tube to the dinner plate, Tank’s info-ammo about genetically modified
food arms you for the fray. Read on for the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

bio wars
4.62

6.89

11.15

18.04

29.188

images: Kevin S · facts: Malu Halasa

initialise

174 175
 The Good
scanning

By using less pesticides, chemicals and farm machinery genetically modified foods tgatcag
will stop environmental degradation and feed the world’s burgeoning population.
Today’s worldwide figure of six billion people is expected to be eight billion by the
year 2020. 18.04 tgtacttg
29.188
Tobacco was the first plant to be genetically transformed in 1983. When Professor
Conrad Lichtenstein of London’s Queen Mary and Westfield College began to intro-
duce genes that resist virus infection into tobacco plants, he found hundreds of simi-
47.22 hactg-
76.41
lar, foreign genes already within the plant’s genetic make-up. Cereals were geneti-
cally modified in 1990. The first genetically modified plants included maize, oilseed 123.63
rape, tomatoes and potatoes.

Genetically modified plants are protected from plant diseases and viruses.
Genetically modified plants can protect us too. Californian researchers have been
growing genetically modified potatoes that will provide vaccination against cholera.
Since potatoes aren’t a popular food in hotter climates, scientists in Cambridge are
trying to genetically modify bananas and tomatoes with vaccines against diarrhoea
viruses and hepatitis B, to be taken either in preserved food or in pills.

Genetically modified tomatoes remain fresher for longer periods. Genetic modifica-
tion promises potatoes that absorb less fat during frying and sweeter strawberries.

Monsanto has planted more than 45 million acres of genetically modified soya, maize
and cotton in the US. Only a few acres of genetically modified crops have been plant-
ed in the EU.

Genetically modified soya, tomatoes, yeast, oilseed rape and maize have been
approved for use in the UK.

Thirty-four genetically modified products have been approved in the US and 30 in foreign genes
176 177 177
Canada, compared to nine in the EU.

Scientists have been increasing plant absorption rates by altering plant DNA. In New
matching tcgatcgcgcg
Zealand, plants are absorbing gold ores through their roots. By adding ammonium
thiocyanate, the chemical used in mining to make gold soluble, plants soak up and
gcgatcgcag
store the precious metal in their foliage. 47.22 ctagcactac-
76.41
Plants are also soaking up heavy metals and toxins from heavily polluted industrial
sites like Chernobyl. A relative of the cabbage, harvested seven times a year, has been 123.63
gagacgcat-
extracting mercury from soil.
200.03 gagatcagca
“We believe biotechnology is one way to cut down on pesticides used in agriculture” 323.65
is a company statement from Monsanto, which has a $150 million research facility
in St. Louis, Missouri, that includes 26 greenhouses.

Following a slump in North American herbicide sales due to the rise of herbicide tol-
erant soya, the chemical conglomerate BASF has changed company policy. In the
past all its profit came from selling chemicals. Recently BASF corporate policy mak-
ers decided to spend up to £36 million to produce the company’s first commercial
genetically modified crop. The research will be paid by European sales of strobilurin
fungicides. This fungicide controls scabs in apples and pears, powdery mildew on
apples, vines, cubit and sugar beet, and mildew, scald, net blotch and glume blotch
on cereals.

By genetically modifying house plants with the genes from the South African flower,
craterostigma plantigineum, a species of the resurrection plant that is drought resis-
tant, British scientists hope to develop house plants that survive lack of watering. In
Canada, scientists are working on lawns that require less watering and flowers that
bloom longer.

In a joint research programme between the Government and agro-industry, BRIGHT

- the Botanical and Rotational Implications of Genetically Modified Herbicide
Tolerance - will conduct a four-year long field trial on genetically modified crops and heavy metals
179 179
arable systems, at a cost of £600,000. The trials studying crop rotations of geneti-
cally modified herbicide tolerant sugar and fodder beet, oilseed rape and maize crops cataggatat-
will take place at five sites operated by the National Institute of Agricultural Botany, trace
the Scottish Agricultural College at Aberdeen, the Institute of Arable Crops Research
gacatagcagc
and the Morley Research Centre. atagacgagc-
In nature pollen rains DNA all over the earth. 200.03
ctagcagcgcg
323.65
catcagcgac-
THE BAD 523.67
tagcacgc-
847.30
Scientists use enzymes to break into DNA strands of plants or animals and insert new
genes. 1370.93

Frankenfoods are scientifically created foods that many believe are quickly becoming
our century’s Frankenstein. Genetically engineered fish, sheep and viruses have also
been tested. In labs human genes have been added to salmon, trout and rice, mouse
genes into tomatoes, and bacteria and virus genes into cucumbers and tomatoes.

The sources for the genes used in genetically modified potatoes include chickens, rats,
moths, scorpions, bacterium and humans.

At the same time the Government refused to ban genetically modified crops from
shops and supermarkets, MPs banned genetically modified foods from restaurants in
the Palace of Westminster. A Friends of the Earth spokesman said, the MPs had
voted “with their stomachs.”

Americans have been eating genetically modified plants for four years without know-
ing it.

According John Bloomer, wheat biotechnology manager of Zeneca Plant Science, 73

per cent of US consumers were willing to buy genetically modified foods, while 63
per cent British respondents to their poll were not willing to do so. In the UK 85 per
enzymes
181 181
cent said the genetically modified foods should be segregated from organic produce, gacatagcagcat-
while 77 per cent said genetically modified food should be banned altogether. gagcccgcatcagc-
search gactagcacgcgac-
The big four supermarkets sell 70 per cent of all British food.
gatcaggcacgatc-
Genetically modified tomato puree has captured the majority of the canned puree gacgagctcatacgc-
market since its introduction in 1996. gatacggcactgac-
847.30 gagcgagcacgc-
Soya is used in 60 per cent of the processed goods, from chocolate to baby food. By
1370.93 tagcaggcatcagga
next year almost all of the soya imported into the UK will be bred to resist weed-
killer. Currently a quarter of the soya that comes to Britain from the US is geneti- 2218.17
cally modified. The amount will increase to 60 per cent this year and 90 per cent
next year. 3589.00

5807.00
Monsanto’s genetically modified soya bean has had genetic material from soil bacte-
ria inserted into the soya bean’s DNA.

Sainsbury’s has sourced non-genetically modified soya for all products, except for 30-
45 of them. The supermarket is not including ingredients from genetically modified
foods where the DNA or protein is no longer detectable, such as soya oil.

Analysis by Greenpeace suggests that by next year more than 95 per cent of all food
on supermarket shelves will contain oil and additives that are derived from geneti-
cally modified foods, but won’t show up after processing.

Iceland Frozen Foods, with 16 per cent of Britain’s frozen food market, doesn’t sell
genetically modified foods in any form. It took the company 18 months to find choco-
late and ice cream factories that were biotech food-free. Iceland has also had to
replace crisps, beer, bread, biscuits, baby foods, cooking oil, sweets, all pastry pies,
ready-made chips, cola, maize-based snacks, sausages, fish in batter, breadcrumbs,
and ready made meals - from chicken nuggets to vegetarian lasagne and Chinese and
Indian pre-prepared meals.
modified
183
Lectin is a class of natural plant proteins, known for its anti-ringworm and anti-insect
feeding properties. Some lectin, if uncooked, are toxic to animals and humans, like gacatagcagcatgagc-
the proteins in red kidney beans. The lectin gene from the snowdrop flower was insert- cgcatcagcgagcacgc-
ed into a potato. The gene was supposed to kill greenfly, which it did. Greenfly by cgatcaggcacgatc-
themselves are not dangerous to potato plants but they transmit leaf roll virus, which active gacgagctcatacgcgat-
causes net necrosis, an unsightly brown spotting on potato skins. Leaf roll virus can acggcactgacgagc-
3589.00
only be controlled by pesticide spraying, one reason why the Scottish Crop Research gagcacgctagcacg-
Institute (SCRI) conducted the snowdrop experiment, in an effort to discover an 5807.00 gcatcaggacgagcc-
appropriate lectin. An unforeseen result of the experiment was that the snowdrop gagcagcgcatagcc-
9395.72
lectin also killed ladybirds. For two weeks female ladybirds were force-fed aphids gactagagcgcacta-
reared on potato leaves that expressed the snowdrop lectin. They lived for only half 15,202.29
their average lifespan, and a higher percentage of their eggs failed to hatch, com-
pared with a control group of ladybirds fed on aphids from non-genetically modified 24,597.30
potatoes. Field experiments like this are necessary if scientists are going to find out
how to limit pesticide use, writes SCRI´s Professor Michael Wilson, in Farming
News. “With each passing year and millions of [genetically modified] crops grown
and consumed without incident, all the speculative ‘what ifs’, ‘mights’ and ‘maybes’
used by the eco-technopanic groups assume the priority and credibility they deserve.”

The extent of public concern over genetically modified foods is beginning to resemble
Eighties fears over nuclear weapons. One of the new logos on Katharine Hamnett’s
spring t-shirts is: Danger Bio-Engineering.

THE UGLY

French farmers broke into a warehouse and pissed on a crop of genetically modified
corn.

Sixty per cent of the crop seed sold in the US will be genetically modified by the year
2000, according to Stephen Nottingham, author of Eat Your Genes (Zed Books).
eco-technopanic
185
The trademark of Monsanto is: Food, Health, Hope. The company makes the world’s gacatagcagcatgagcccg-
most popular herbicide, Roundup. Worth over $1500 million annually, Roundup uses catcagcgactagcacgcgac-
hunt gatcaggcacgatcgac-
glyphosate, the chemical which, according to Pesticides News, causes a range of
acute symptoms, including recurrent eczema, respiratory problems, elevated blood gagctcatacgcgatacg-
gcactgacgagcgagcacgc-
pressure and allergic reactions. In lab tests on rabbits glyphosate caused long last-
tagcacggcatcaggacgagc-
ing effects on sperm counts. Glyphosate residues were found in lettuce, carrot and 15,202.29 cgagcagcgcatagccgacta-
barley planted a year after glyphosate was applied. Use of glyphosate in the EU gagcgcactagagccgacgat-
increased by 129 per cent between 1991 and 1995. 24,597.30
gacgacgctgagcacgtag-
39,798.44
cacgattagctgactattgcat-
At the August meeting of the Ecological Society of America Dr. Joy Bergelson from catctcatcactctgatcattac-
the University of Chicago stated the findings of her experiments, in which crops mod- 64,393.87
ified to be herbicide resistant can create prolific weeds that are hard to kill. 104,189.29

Guardian columnist George Monbiot maintains that Monsanto’s work is not in pro-
duction of food for people, but for animals. Its joint venture with the multinational
grain merchant Cargill is for producing and marketing the “seeds of genetically engi-
neered fodder plants, particularly maize.”

The Swedish farmers organization LRF has demanded that animal feed producers use
materials free from genetic engineering. Swiss farmers have joined food producers,
consumers and Greenpeace in legally challenging their government’s approval of
genetically modified soya. US dairy farmers oppose rBGH - bovine growth hormone
- another Monsanto product.

Companies planning to grow experimental plots of genetically engineered plants in

the UK must write detailed proposals and apply to the Advisory Committee in
Releases to the Environment (ACRE). In April, ACRE released a rogues’ gallery of
companies that breached their consents for carrying out field experiments. Monsanto
and Nickerson Biocem grew herbicide resistant oilseed rape too near unmodified
plants, without a properly sized buffer zone. Nickerson also grew unmodified oilseed
rape just a few metres from a genetically modified variety carrying extra genes for
an enzyme that improves the uptake of phosphate in cattle eating the crop. experimental
187
 Due to this breach they have been banned from growing rape in a 64-hectares plot gacatagcagcatgagcccg-
gather catcagcgactagcacgcgac-
for three years. AgrEvo failed to limit escape of pollen from herbicide resistant wheat. gatcaggcacgatcgacgagct-
Plant Genetic Systems failed to notify the proper officials about their experiment to catacgcgatacggcactgac-
grow herbicide resistant rape with male sterility. SCRI put beans instead of cereals gagcgagcacgctagcacg-
gcatcaggacgagccgagcagcg-
around a plot of potatoes resistant to leaf roll virus, which effectively camouflaged catagccgactagagcgcacta-
the potatoes. The seeds for the National Institute of Agricultural Botany’s plot for gagccgacgatgacgacgctgag-
64,393.87
herbicide resistant oilseed rape were scattered outside the designated area. cacgtagcacgattagctgac-
104,189.29 tattgcatcatctcatcactctgat-
cattacctatctgatcactctatc-
By the year 2000 the world will have lost 95 per cent of the genetic diversity that tacgagcatagccgtagacgact-
168,578.28
was used in agriculture at the beginning of the century, according to the internation- gacatcaggcatagactagccab-
al regulatory body the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). 272,759.66

441,325.13
In a well documented case, scientists transferred a gene from a brazil nut to a soya
bean in order to improve the protein content of the bean. The genetic modification
also transferred the brazil nut allergy to the soya bean.

Consumers International, a federation of 226 consumer organisations in 105 coun-

tries, issued a statement that genetically modified foods have already produced new
toxins and led to allergies.

Rice fields are a major producer of greenhouse gasses, and monoculture soya pro-
duction is probably more polluting and leads to as much deforestation as cattle ranch-
ing, writes Robin Page, chairman of the Countryside Restoration Trust in The Daily
Telegraph. He advocates the removal of biotech research from the chemical compa-
nies and “undertaken at public expense for the good of food supply and a healthy
world.” He cites the example of the Plant Breeding Institute in Cambridge, the world
renown research facility that the Tories privatised and sold to Unilever for £66 mil-
lion, in 1987. Now known as Plant Breeding International, it is being sold again and
expected to fetch between £200 to £300 million on the market.

Forty-four wholefood retailers have started a “Wholefoods Against Genetix Food”

campaign.
protein
188 189
 Potatoes are grown not from seed, but from potato eyes. By the time they get to the gacatagcagcatgagcccgcatcagcgac-
tagcacgcgcgatcaggcacgatcgac-
soil, the farmers are planting disease-free, miniature potatoes. US potato farmers lock gagctcatacgcgatacggcactgacgagc-
give their crops up to ten applications of chemical fertilizer during the growing sea- gagcacgctagcacggcatcaggacgagcc-
gagcagcgcatagccgactagagcgcacta-
son and eight fungicides, including the organophosphate Monitor, which has been gagccgacgatgacgacgctgagcacgtag-
cacgattagctgactattgcatcatctcat-
found to cause neurological damage in humans. cactctgatcattacctatctgatcactctatc-
tacgagcatagccgtagacgactga-
168,578.28 catcaggcatagactagccabtagcagct-
Stephen Postlethwaite grows 130 acres of potatoes near Rugby in Warwickshire. He gacgcactatctgcacgactagacgc-
tagcagcatgaccgactagcgcatagccgac-
gets about 20 tonnes to an acre and this year’s harvest of 2,600 tonnes could have 272,759.66 tacttgcatactctatccavtcctactvat-
covered his house many times over. “Some people put a pesticide in with the pota- cattcatcactatctcactatctcatcatcatc-
441,325.13 cactctgatcattacctatctgatcactctatc-
toes to protect them from soil borne worms. Then there is a spray insecticide that’s tacgagcatagccgtagacgactga-
only used for aphids. You’d spray two weeks later in the hotter damper weather, but 714,064.06
because it was a cool summer I didn’t spray at all this year.” The only other spray
Postlethwaite used was a fungicide to prevent Blight, a disease that turns potatoes to 1,155,355.66
mush. Farmers use a contact spray that sits on the leaves. From the end of June
Postlethwaite sprayed seven or eight times. Before the potatoes are “burnt off” - the
top of the plants are destroyed and the tubers stay underground in order to harden
their skins - the plants are sprayed with a fungicide that protects them against Tuber
Blight. Postlethwaite spends approximately £100 per acre on chemicals. He explains,
“People are led to believe that farmers are throwing spray all over the place, if you
could actually see the money we have to spend you’d soon see that we are extremely
careful.” His farm’s Estima and Nadene potatoes are sold in supermarkets.
Postlethwaite is under contract by McCain’s Chips for his Petland Dells.

Plants that carry the Delta and Pine Land Company patented Terminator gene will
produce sterile seeds. This will force the company’s primary customers in second and
third world countries to buy new stock every year. The financial implication for small
shareholder farmers could be grave, says Pesticides News, “as more poisons are
needed to deal with insect and seed resistance.”

A statement from African delegates, at the June meeting of the FAO Commission on
Genetic Resources, accuses the multinational agro-chemical industries of “using the
image of the poor and hungry from our countries to push a technology that is neither
safe, environmentally friendly nor economically beneficial to us.”
terminator
190 191
 In the Sahel region of Africa, production of sorghum millet and cassava has fallen by For More Information:

over one per cent a year for the last 20 years, while wheat imports have increased AgrEvo, tel. 0151 424 5681; British Crop Protection Council, telephone 01252 733 072, http:// www.bcpc.org; Friends of the

annually by eight per cent. Wheat is a crop that cannot be grown locally. It is also Earth, tel. 0171 490 1555, http://www.foe.co.uk; Greenpeace, tel. 0171 865 8100, http://www.greenpeace.org.uk; Monsanto info

a grains that is considered water greedy, compared to other grains and pulses, bar- line, 0800 092 0401, http:// www.monsanto.co.uk; National Institute of Agricultural Botany at Cambridge, tel. 01223 276 381,
ley or lentils. http://www.niab.com, the NIAB periodically holds open days on genetically modified foods; Nickerson Biocem, tel. 01223 423 933;

Pesticides Trust, http://www.gn.apc.org/ pesticidestrust; Plant Genetics Systems, tel. 01954 210 171; Royal Society has published
As a result of human intervention crops have been continually selected for improved the report “Genetically Modified Plants for Food Use”, http://www.royalsoc.ac.uk; Soil Association, tel. 0117 929 066l,
yield, growth or food characteristics. In the past the wild pea plant shot out its seeds http://info@soil association.org; Scottish Crop Research Institute Potato Research Division, tel. 01968 660 554, Scottish Crop
- its peas - to propagate itself. Ancient farmers bred the plants that didn’t shoot out Research Institute Headquarters, tel. 01382 562 731
their seeds. Wheat originally came from the Fertile Crescent, an area of the world
where long grain grasses proliferated. Like the seed-holding wild pea, the original
animals that were selected for domestication were picked for a reason. Zebras were
never domesticated because they had a bad disposition. When they bit people they
had a tendency to hold on.

Daffodils are poisonous.

An estimated 50,000 species of plants and animals are expected to become extinct
every year.

There is a difference between food that contains the genetically modified material,
like fresh genetically modified tomatoes, and food where the DNA has been degrad-
ed by processing as in tomato paste from genetically modified tomatoes and food con-
taining products of genetically modified organisms but not the original gene - an
example is cheese made with enzymes manufactured by genetically modified micro-
organisms. Genetically engineered organisms can mutate.

More than 800 million people suffer starvation in the world.

attack
192 193
photos: John Paul Pietrus
styling: Jo Philips
196
198
201
203
205
page 195
Pillbox hat by Philip Treacy · Skirt by Issey Miyake · Suede shoes by Shelly’s for
Copperwheat Blundell · Perspex bag by Lyall Harkaraia

page 196
Hat by Philip Treacy · Ceramic body sculpture by Margaret O’Roke for Warren Griffiths · Dress by
Clements Ribeiro · Fishnet tights by Jonathan Aston · Shoes by Diego Dolcini

page 199
Belt by Sally Gissing · Slingbacks by Shellys for Copperwheat Blundell

page 201
V top by Copperwheat Blundell · Ruffle bikini by Joely Nain for Copperwheat Blundell
Bracelets by Van der Straeten · Skirt by Fly Now · Space shoes by Patrik Cox

page 202
Top by Seraph · Bra by Calvin Klein · Bracelet from Ericson Beamon
Skirt by Bernstoc & Speirs · Leather bag by Philip Treacy

page 205
Perspex jewelery by Lara Boeing 747-Backless · Ruffle dress by Copperwheat Blundel · Orange and red
striped dress by Mark Whittaker · Belt by Sally Gissing · Shoes by Shelly for Copperwheat Blundell

page 207
Multi coloured umbrella by Jean Charles De Castelbaljac · Dress by Tristian Webber · Tong Sandals by
Patrick Cox

styling: Jo Philips assisted by Lucy Edwards

hair: Jeannie Roberts @ Public
make-up: J. Maskery
Model Eva Strus @ Two Management
Special thank you to Kay Whaling for prop building
206
The Design Partnership BUMP created these most versatile visiting cards and asked a group
of people to make their own special visiting card, using 8 letters.
do your own
 hyper made real

sim city

by Hari Kunzru
218
 transient [tran’zi-ent] -adj. passing, of short duration: making, or for persons mak-
ing, only a short stay, –n. temporary resident, worker

Half-light in the departure lounge. The feeling hits me as soon as I get through pass-
Smack, oil, dollars, horses, water, golf,
port control. You could call it the timelessness of international travel. Not as in
electronics - and slavery in Dubai
‘timeless elegance’ or nostalgia for a sepia-toned past. No, time-less, as in the
absence of time, the loss of all temporal markers which might anchor me to the pre-
sent moment. It’s scary, this feeling that I am now completely adrift. After all, time
is just another word for place, and once inside an airport you aren’t really anywhere
at all.

So I cruise aisles of internationally-branded goods and snack on food free of unset-

tling local tastes and ingredients, all the time addressed by terse sanserif signs which
instruct me in uninflected English to proceed, not to proceed, to join a queue, to take
care of my belongings, and above all to wait. Always wait.

A man buys a Coke from a vending machine. An elderly Chinese couple ease them-
selves down into the last free plastic seats. Beside me a teenage girl trances out with
her Gameboy, boxfresh Nikes outstretched, Eurasian face, a mask, one Levi’d leg
jigging in time to the blip blip of Donkey Kong. Here we all are, waiting. Indians,
Japanese, Filipinos, Americans, Saudis, Nigerians, Swedes, all momentarily arrest-
ed on whatever path we and our families have been following across the globe, this
room with its rows of seats freeze-framing a sample of the world’s migrations, per-
manent or temporary, individual, generational, over in a second or so slow the par-
ticipants barely realise they’re moving. All these waiting people, continuing a vector
started by their parents, their grandparents, their grandparents’ grandparents... A
whiff of diaspora always hangs around airports, but the sleeve-tug of elsewhere is
especially strong in this particular lounge. For we are waiting to board Emirates
flight EK004, destination Dubai.

220
 Dubai is a place of migrants. Barely existing in the global imagination 30 years ago,
post-oil it has become the commercial hub of the Middle East. It has a population
of 2.2 million, of which 1.5 million are non-nationals. 1.5 million transients, 1.5
million people just passing through. Dubai isn’t somewhere to settle. Fifty years ago
it was just an empty stretch of flat, iron-reddened sand, whose inhabitants made a
little money trading and pearl diving. These days it’s a magnet, a place which draws
hopeful immigrants from all over the world, all there for one reason and one reason
only. From the Home Counties businesswoman doing a three year stint for her
accountancy firm, to the Bangladeshi construction worker and the Malay maid mak-
ing up the beds in her employer’s beach house, they have all come to generate cap-
ital and funnel it back home.

I will be passing through a little quicker than most. I am a guest of the ‘Government
of Dubai Department of Tourism and Commerce Marketing’, a journalist travelling
to the second city of the United Arab Emirates to attend Gitex 18, which I and my
hosts would like you to know is now the largest computer trade fair in the Middle
East. I am here to spread the word about Dubai, about its fine atmosphere for busi-
ness, its first class facilities, its phenomenal growth, and above all, about the money.
It’s there, waiting for you, my friend. And all you have to do is reach out your hand
and take it.

Think about the money, as I board the plane, adjust the four comfort parameters of
my superwide business class seat, pop a melatonin and fall asleep to the sound of
automatic weapon fire, coming through the headphones connected to my personal
LCD screen armrest TV. Ah, sweet dreams.
••
“Move Your Business Base to the Gateway of the Globe. 1.5 billion consumers
await you at your arrival. A business base with a first world infrastructure - at a
third world cost.”

222 223
 Consult the CIA world fact book and you will discover that the United Arab
Emirates is “slightly smaller than the State of Maine”. It occupies “a strategic
location along the southern approaches to the Strait of Hormuz, a vital transit point
for world crude oil.” It also has a “growing role as a heroin trans-shipment and
money-laundering centre due to its proximity to South West Asian producing coun-
tries, and the bustling Dubai free trade zone.”
Smack, oil and dollars are just a few of the elements in Dubai’s periodic table. You
could add horses, water, golf, electronics - and slavery. Dubai’s story is not about
Americans and Europeans educating a backwards people in the ways of business.
Gulf Arab traders were plying the Africa trade for centuries before the discovery of
oil.
••
Courtesy and hospitality are among the most highly prized of virtues in the Arab
world, and visitors will be charmed by the warmth and friendliness of the people...
Abdullah works for the Tourism and Commerce Department. He wears the tradi-
tional dress of Dubai, black-banded head-dress and a white robe, from beneath
which peek a pair of handmade penny loafers. He grins from behind black Rayban
Wayfarers, and slips his slimline Nokia phone back into a pocket. Then he leads me
to a barn-sized Cadillac where, in a gesture of politeness, he turns up the air-con to
arctic levels, giving me a sympathetic look. “Nice weather we are having” he says.
I agree. It is November. The outside temperature is pushing 40 degrees centigrade.
Abdullah puts his foot to the floor and we screech out of the carpark onto the eight-
lane blacktop highway which links the airport and the city centre. By the time the
speedometer touches 155km/h we are tail-gating a 4x4 with an “IIslam” sticker
in the rear window. Abdullah punches the horn and flashes his lights. Eventually it
pulls over, and we scream past. You should be a rally driver, I tell him. This is
already my hobby, he responds. For two years I am driving desert races. It is good,
224
except I crash too much.
To take my mind off this answer I look out of the window. Stare for thirty seconds
and you can almost see the Dubai skyline change. Half-built skyscrapers line the
roadside. Construction proceeds at a feverish pace, from a giant airport terminal to
millions of square feet of new offices. In the next two years alone, six more five-star
hotel towers will open here. His Highness the Sheikh recently laid the foundation
stone for a pair of 50-storey smart buildings, which will provide infrastructure for a
new software industry. Washing lines string the twin skeletons of the half-finished
monsters, hung with dhotis belonging to Indian labourers flown over to do the job.
The prevailing architectural style is brash, Dubai’s moneyed optimism fog-horning
out over its scrubby desert base. One 30 storey tower is half-faced in green smoked
glass, the other half in gold, like a giant onyx writing set. Many more make crude
gestures at traditional Arab forms, here a pointed arch, there a minaret. These
schoolroom attempts at context are often unintentionally funny. There is little con-
text here for the dutiful architect to find, little historical surrounding to be sensitive
towards. Buried between office blocks in the town centre are a few traditional hous-
es with square barajeel wind towers. The government bought most of them to pre-
vent them being demolished, as downtown land values began to rival those of
Manhattan or Tokyo.
Context has to be gleaned elsewhere. In the new architectural epidemic, the most
popular reference is nautical. “Dubai’s seafaring tradition” is a staple of the tourist
brochures, and so the new Jumeirah Beach fitness centre “calls to mind the noble
prow of a dhow”, the hotel beside it is known as the “Breaking Wave”, and the
structure of the extraordinary 45-metre high Dubai Creek Golf and Yacht clubhouse
is based on “the sails of a boat filled with wind.”
Other contexts are more tenuous. After Islam, golf is the main religion, and one of
225
 the office towers along the creek is appropriately topped with a gargantuan dimpled
ball. Some of the architecture is beautiful, much just absurd. From the front of the
Emirates Air training centre pokes a sort of giant mutant porch in the shape of a
747, complete with wings and engines.

Throughout the city, planning proceeds at Sim City pace, 50-metre behemoths
appearing in a mouse-click, CAD-CAM models cloaking themselves in plate-glass
and steel in the time it takes to output the file to a printer. Sure enough, when
Abdullah hands me some promotional material, it comes in a bag with a pixellated
representation of Dubai landmarks on the front, a straight steal from the aesthetic
of the computer game. Not for the last time during my visit I find myself wonder-
ing if this isn’t just a joke, or an enormous lab experiment.

I dismiss the thought. Looking for conspiracies isn’t necessary in Dubai. There’s no
cabal, no invisible hand. The direction is open and obvious. Portraits of His Highness
Sheikh Maktoum bin Rashid al Maktoum hang above every shop counter, every bar-
ber’s chair, every hotel reception desk in the city. The Sheikh continues the economic
strategy started by his grandfather, the late Sheikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum.
Despite its free market vibe, Dubai is, in the strictest sense, a planned economy. A
business model exists to direct the fortunes of this tiny desert state as far as 2030.
The plans are flexible, but they will certainly be implemented. The Sheikh’s rule is
absolute, and Dubai has no parliament, no democratic vote to muddy the clarity of
his vision. Inshallah, God willing, by the time the oil runs out diversification will be
complete. For the Sheikh sees the future in service industries. He interests himself
in added value and customer satisfaction. The Sheikh would like everyone to have
exactly what they want, within the bounds of Islamic morality and reason. And he
knows his guests will pay hard currency to get it.

Perhaps His Highness the Sheikh would be proud of the extra services at the Crowne
Plaza Hotel. I go up to my room and at once a string of fey young porters arrive,
226
 bringing chocolates, a basket of fruit, a spare bathrobe, just coming to fluff sir’s pil-
lows, to ask if sir finds everything alright. Always they end with a direct look in the
eyes and the same question - “Is there anything else I can do for you?” I tell myself
I’m imagining things. After the fourth visit I stop answering the door.
••
Is your business connected to the global network? Discover the winning formula for
financial solutions to your IT dreams.
I leave my air-conditioned hotel room and take an air-conditioned limo to the air-
conditioned trade fair, seven halls of high-technology companies making deals,
demonstrating their latest products, and handing out forests of leaflets to anyone
who strays within reach of their stands. Outside I briefly feel the heat and taste the
desert air as my badge is pinned to my chest. Then inside to the chill vacuum of inter-
national computer business. In one corner of the exhibition space a group of Middle
Eastern firms are promoting CD-rom Koran products. Muezzins recite holy verses,
their distorted treble voices rasping out of multimedia PC speakers, volume knobs
turned up to ten.
You can hear the PC-compatible call to prayer while you watch the Panasonic pre-
sentation. Two young women stand on stage in front of a giant plasma screen. They
are dressed in sexy space outfits, low-cut tops, silver miniskirts and thigh boots. Both
wear headsets. Behind them, graphics of a spaceship whizzing over a cratered plan-
etary surface are accompanied by pompous synth-rock. The spacechicks run through
a script, talking to “The Captain” over their headsets. It seems he is finding his
ruggedised Panasonic laptop rather useful in his exploration mission. The girls draw
a big crowd, rather bigger than the word of God or even the displays of industrial
process technologies nearby. A gaggle of corporate guys and traditionally-dressed
Arabs clap appreciatively as the girls pour water onto their laptop co-star. Then they
disappear backstage before anyone attempts to beam them up.
••
228
The PR manager is talking. “We all went to the launch of Planet Hollywood last
week. Patrick Swayze was there. Cindy Crawford was there. I don’t think any of
these people would come to Dubai unless we had something to offer them...” I zone
out. Around us in the hotel lobby are small circular tables, each one occupied by a
short sleeved businessman. In front of each businessman is a mobile phone, a menu
and a tall glass of juice topped with a cocktail umbrella and a pair of jaunty straws.
Occasionally one of the phones goes off, a shrill chirping which its owner cuts short
with a jab of the thumb and a self-important expression. Maybe it’s me, but I can’t
forget that while all of us are living together in this sealed 2000-room space, breath-
ing freeze-dried artificial air and washing in bright desalinated water, somewhere
beneath our feet, beneath the roots of this giant atrium with its mirrors and chan-
deliers, is the red, shifting desert.
••
“A World Exists Beyond Your Imagination...”
At the entrance to the Breaking Wave, also known as the Jumeirah Beach Hotel, a
Filipino man opens the door of my limo. He is dressed in dusky pink plus fours, a
pink argyll jumper and an oversize urchin cap. He looks like a psychedelic 1920s
golf pro. Beside him is a Singaporean girl, dressed as a pink explorer, complete with
rose-coloured pith helmet. Together they show me into the lobby.
The lobby opens out onto an atrium which reaches up a giddy 26 floors. It is themed
around the elements, ‘water’ colours shading into earth, air and fire. One wall of this
enormous space is given over to what the brochure calls a “breathtaking lobby fea-
ture”. This consists of a 90 metre high relief map of the UAE, surmounted by a
revolving sun and moon. In the centre is a throbbing red beacon, marking Abu
Dhabi. Across the face of this cosmology criss-cross grey arcs, lit up by winking
fairy lights. I ask what they represent. Those are the Emirates Air flight routes, I
am told.
229
 The golf pro and the explorer show me to one of the Jumeirah Beach’s 18 restau-
rants (Argentinean, Lebanese, German, The “Dhow and Anchor British Pub”...). I
am to eat at the Downtown Bar and Grill, where it is New Orleans week. The space
is hung with bunting and just outside the window is a two-thirds scale model of a
Mississippi Riverboat. Behind it, waves lap against the artificially-landscaped
beach, fringed by authentic Caribbean palm varieties, which shelter discreet signs
giving directions to the hotel’s five pools, sports club, 24 colonnade retail units, ball-
room, conference centre and marina. Behind my table another sign says “This Way
to the Viennese Café”.
I sit down to lunch with several traditionally dressed Emiris and two of the hotel’s
PRs. On a stage in front of us a live band plays seventies jazz-funk. We make light
conversation. No-one else round the table appears to find anything strange or con-
fusing about our situation.
The PRs tell me that:
- Each room has a sea-view.
- Dubai has more to offer than the UK, lifestyle-wise.
- Each tree in the complex has its own halogen light and automatic sprinkler sys-
tem.
- At weekends everyone drinks in hotel bars.
- The new annex will contain only luxury suites. The largest of these is three storeys
high.
- South Africa has gone downhill, but it’s understandable because the blacks hadn’t
been exposed to the right business atmosphere.
- The helipad has been added due to customer demand.
- The entire hotel frontage can be used for projections. The last one they did was a
Mercedes Benz sign.
When an Indian waiter appears, dressed as a hyper-real Norman Rockwell
230
soda-jerk, I have to excuse myself and go to the toilet. It takes some minutes of deep
breathing and hard stares into the gold-rimmed mirror of the marble plumbing fan-
tasy before I am ready to go back outside.
••
I am developing the theory that all this has landed from space. It is a capsule, self-
contained, self-referential, entirely indifferent to where it lands. This is the “inter-
national business environment”, as self-sustaining as the Panasonic captain’s inter-
planetary exploration craft. Any second, in response to some global flow of capital,
the whole city could lift off and reposition itself somewhere else, the Mekong Delta,
Baffin Island, San Francisco Bay. The pace of life and ambient temperature would
stay the same, the towels would be just as fluffy and white, and the rolls would still
be warm at breakfast. Perhaps the staff would look slightly different, but their name
badges - “Michael”, “Kelly”, “Paul” would still say the same things.
••
At the airport, my pockets are full of fine, red sand. A souvenir from last night, from
my walk out into the desert. The moon was bright and the only signs of life were dis-
tant sets of bobbing head-lights, expats doing a little night-time dune-bashing in
their four-by-fours. Beside me on the transit bus a middle-aged British woman strap-
hangs and chats to her neighbour. Both are wearing gold shoes, their skin tanned,
hair frozen into expensive perms. “Of course it’s cheaper” one says to the other.
“And cleaner. You just get a better quality of life all round. We had Simply Red
playing the beach club last month.” Then the bus doors open and just for a moment,
I feel the dry heat against my face.
231
 styling: Venio Polyhionaki · make-up: Petros Petrohilos
hair: Etra Nova · model: Kirsty @ Elite Premiere
photo: George V. Grey fractioned coat by Sophia Kokosalaki
photos: Masoud
237
238
240
 page 235
Blue Suede Orchid by Viviene Westwood · Jacket by Gaspard Yurkievich

page 237
Black leather blouson and red leather tank top by Veronique Leroy

page 238
Fur coat by Viktor and Rolf

page 241
Sheepskin jacket by Viviene Westwood

page 242
Fur tiara by Prudence · Black satin jacket and dress by Gaspard Yurkovich

styling: Yasmine Eslami

hair: Kevin Ford for the Lounge @Public
make-up: Charlotte Day @ Transit
photographers assistant Kay Wahling
model: Suzanne Crozier @Select
Shot @ Spring Studios 0171-267 83 83
242
 photos: Stephan Ziehen @ GSM

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model: Korinna @ Models 1, Anja Karina & Joy Tate @ Model Management and Tim @ Modelwerk Dress by Anja Chopra
her outfit by Anja Chopra Outfits by Kostas Murkudis
his outfit by Kostas Murkudis
Coat by Sibilla Pavenstedt Coat by John de Maya
Dress by Angar Jabit Outfit by Kostas Murkudis
 Alexander McQueen

spring/summer collections I999

art: Julie Verhoeven @ Creative Union

252
Antonio Berardi
Clements Ribeiro
Hussein Chalayan
 Robert Cary-Williams

260
art: Andy Harper
mobile home

art: Peter Garfield @ Nylon

265
266 267
 Every time I visit James in prison he tries to have sex with me. The visits room is
crowded, overheated in winter, airless in summer. We are allowed to sit on the same
side of the table. We start by holding hands, we progress to kissing, he places one
hand on my breast. It makes him die, I can feel it, he would give everything away
if he could just have me. Before I come to visit I get a letter from him; he tells me
not to wear any knickers, to wear a big, long skirt. To sit on his lap, my skirt cov-
ering us, and then to move in a slow way that will let him get inside me.

We never quite make it. An officer always walks by just when I think it’s about to
happen, and they always make a joke about us trying to have sex and James always
denies it and gets angry and I slide off his lap and back into the chair next to his.
Once the officer goes past James always, always, looks as though he is going to cry.
But he never does. And neither do I.
••
James killed his brother-in-law. It is an unalterable fact. Bobby was a violent man.
We knew he used to hurt James’ sister Maria. It wasn’t straitforward slapping
around, we knew he tortured her, the marks on her body showed us. Finally, after
the visits room years of it, Maria threw Bobby out. James was relieved. We all were. We thought
a happy ending had arrived.

But then Maria came round one Sunday. She looked terrible, her hair a wild mess,
her face bruised and scratched. Weeping, she told us that Bobby had broken into
the house and raped her, and gone off with their two kids. As she spoke I felt James’
body grow tense. He had an idea of where Bobby had gone, I don’t know how. So
James went round to try and get the kids back, and they got into a fight, and James
killed Bobby. He crushed his scull with a heavy old mirror that Bobby’s new girl-
friend had hanging on the wall. He drove Maria’s kids to our place. Maria was
happy to see her children, but I could tell something had gone wrong. James turned
by Kate Pullinger toward the front door again. I asked him where he was going. "To the police," he
268 269
 said, and I knew what had happened.
James was in prison on remand for a long time. When his trial finally took place
we realized he would lose. We hoped for a verdict of manslaughter. He had no pre-
vious convictions, he had never been in trouble before. But they said he had gone
round intending to kill Bobby, and I guess he had. He was convicted of murder and
got life. He was given a life sentence.
The visits room is very bare. The tables and chairs are battered and old, the walls
are grey, the barred perspex windows are filthy. An officer sits on a table on a raised
platform. We are watched. Other prisoners have noisy, sociable visits but James and
I often just sit in silence. It is difficult to talk; I feel that James has himself only
barely held in. When I’m there he will sit and clutch my hand and stare into my eyes
for the whole two hours we are allowed together. He would never have done that
outside.
I brought my sister Maureen to see James one day. At the next table another lifer,
a young, good-looking lad, was being visited by his family. I pushed our tables clos-
er. James and I held hands while Maureen had a laugh with Ian. Now Maureen
goes and visits Ian on her own. She says thirteen to 16 years seems like a long time
to wait for a man. She laughs and says how can you know you love someone with-
out being able to fuck them? And then she blushes and looks at me and says she is
sorry. I don’t care. It’s good to have someone to make the journey to visits with.
James tells me that Ian is a nice lad. He killed a woman during the course of a
burglary. He was 16 and he was not expecting anyone to be home. He graduated
from young offenders prison to adult prison a few years back. James said Ian was
just a burglar and never meant anyone any harm. James is changing; before, he
would have rattled his newspaper and said he thought boys like Ian should be strung
270
up.
••
The visits room is not a good place to conduct a marriage. It is not a good place
for anything except smoking and drinking cups of tea. James and I got married
when we were both 24, old enough and not that young anymore. We were happy to
be married, we felt we belonged together. We used to have a good time with flying
diaphragms, mucking up with spermicide, condoms that refused to unroll. Then we
decided to have a child and we binned all the birth control. But no luck. I thought
we should go to the doctor and get some help, see where the problem lay, but James
didn’t want to. He said we should just keep on having sex, and if I got pregnant
that was good, but otherwise it was not meant to be. He said he didn’t want to find
out it was his fault, or mine, something gone wrong inside one of us, something sour,
barren, unfit. This way we are in it together, it is no-one else’s business, and I sup-
pose, in a way, he is right.
Now that James is in prison I’m glad we don't have children. It would have made it
all much worse. In the visits room the children often cry, and their upsets make it
harder for the adults, I can see that. There is a little roped off area where volunteers
play with the kids while their mothers spend some time with the dads. Someone has
tried to make it cheery, but they haven’t succeeded. The wall murals look gruesome,
the plastic toys dirty.
I bought James’ sister Maria to the prison once. It wasn’t a good visit. Maria cried
the whole time, she went on and on about her fatherless children, about being on her
own, about how much she misses Bobby. I was stunned. James is her brother. I
would not have brought her if I knew she would say that. James sat pushed back in
his chair with a completely blank expression on his face while Maria’s despair rolled
over him in waves. You killed my husband, she said, plain as day, everyone sipping
their tea and laughing together in the crowded, smoky, hot, visits room. James said
271
 nothing, but I could see him harden, I could see him drying out and stiffening in his
chair. Maria’s voice got louder and louder. You murdered my husband, she said
again and again. I couldn’t listen anymore: I hit her, I slapped her across the face.
She stopped talking, stopped sobbing, and just sat there on the filthy, lop-sided metal
chair. I looked up and saw the officer watching us, a look of contempt and disgust
on his face. Two bitches and a murderer and their sordid argument. At that
moment I wished we all three were dead.
••
Last month I was invited to go to the prison for a Lifer Family Day. I received a
leaflet in the post, inviting me. There would be speakers talking about life sentences
and the system for lifers, there would be time for both inmates and their families to
ask questions. There would be an opportunity to have lunch with James. A whole
day together, an entire day spent sitting in the visits room. The leaflet said it would
be a hard-won opportunity and not to be missed.
We are allowed two visits per month if I go on the weekend, four if I can get there
on weekdays although that’s difficult. The Lifer Family Day would not be counted
against our visits. I saw James a few weeks before and I asked him if he thought I
should bring his parents, perhaps his brother William who still talks about trying to
mount an appeal. James said no, he was looking upon it as a chance to spend time
with me. I could not help it, but part of me was filled with dread. A whole day in
that room, a whole day of being next to James but no chance to be with him. Of
course I agreed to go, I sent in my name, and travelled up to the prison first thing
that day.
When I arrived the visits room was already crowded. The tables we usually sat at
had been pushed to one side and rows of seats were arranged in a large semi-circle.
There was an overhead projector and a lectern and a number of men in suits. I found
a chair in the back row. We heard the keys and key-chains rattling and the prison-
272
ers’ door opened and James and the other men came through. When he saw me he
smiled and I felt the same searing pain that I always do. Sometimes I dream that
when I leave the visits room James comes with me. We are outside in the fresh air,
and the flowers, and the breeze.
James sat down beside me. The speakers started speaking, putting diagrams up on
the overhead projector, explaining how a life sentence is served. The basic princi-
ple is that everything takes a very long time. The average length currently served is
15.4 years, but some men are in for much longer. Years in one institution are fol-
lowed by years in another institution.
In between there are one or two meetings. The speakers used words like sentence
planning, sentence review, even probation once or twice. It was very absorbing for
the first hour. James kept one hand on my knee and the other around my waist and
when I looked at him his face seemed younger, more serene. We had a tea break.
Maureen was there along with Ian’s family, so we got together and had a chat.
James was talkative, relaxed, nearly effusive. He told one or two stories. The speak-
ers started up again, and then it was time for lunch.
It was wonderful to eat with James again. I had not seen him eat for such a long
time; we had not eaten a meal together since he had left for the police station that
day. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble over the food, there were sandwiches,
bits of pie, pastries and cake. The mood in the visits room was slightly euphoric,
everyone piled their plates high. Ian’s brother fetched us pitchers of water, pots of
tea. It was like being at a banquet, it was like our wedding all over again. James
smiled and ate, and then smiled with food in his teeth. He kept one arm around me.
I fed him triangles of sandwiches. We toasted the table with our mugs.
In the afternoon, the speakers started up again. The overhead projector went on,
273
 and one of the deputy governors began to talk. The room had become warmer still.
People had urgent questions, lots of hands were waving, prisoners argued their side
passionately. But in the back row where James and I were sitting it was a differ-
ent story. In the back row couples were kissing. We had eaten together and now we
wanted more.

I got onto James’ lap, like I had done countless other times. He buried his face in
my shirt, opening one or two buttons with his teeth. I could smell him and beneath
his prison smell of tobacco and staleness, there was the smell of James. I couldn’t
believe what was happening. There were no officers strolling up and down the aisles,
we were as far away from an officer as we had ever been. I smoothed my skirt and
kept my face turned forward so I at least looked as though I was listening. James
fumbled, and it was awkward, I had to lift my weight from one leg to another. But
then - I had to turn, I had to bend slightly, it was a bit painful - it happened. I could
hear James trying to control his breathing. A few heads turned, and quickly faced
away again. I felt him, I felt it all, it was piercing and complete. James buried his
face in my back and bit me hard instead of crying out.

I slid off his lap. Our smell was drowned by cigarettes, food and sweat. There were
disapproving glances, but I didn’t care. This was all we had to hope for, this was
all we would get. The afternoon ended, James held me tight in his arms, and I left.

I know that it is wrong to kill. I know that Bobby should not have died. James is
in prison now, we are paying for Bobby’s death. It is a huge debt, and his sentence
is very long. But James is just James and I am his wife and the visits room is our
asylum.

274 275
art: Amy Jenkins @ Nylon

277
278 279
 Thirty-something female, attractive and stylish, good sense of humour, seeks non-
smoking male (30-35) into cinema and travel, for fun and romance. Attractive,
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soulmates the coast and countryside seeks eccentric, relaxed, honest, slim, caring, thoughtful,
intelligent, outgoing, lazy, Welsh-speaking male for a relationship. Aggressive red-
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by Mark Leigh
280
photos: Kevin Martin

283
284 285
images: Josephine Soughan
photo: Roger Deckker

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