Her distinctive analogue shooting style and avant-garde use of composition have brought attitude to luxury brands including Gucci, Burberry and Balenciaga. With a background in Fine Art, Atlanta Rascher's striking book 'Spiders and... girls' combines her photographic auteurship with clean-lined, timeless sartorial looks and automatic illustration. The result is at once stylish and emotive. But, more than that, the book is an honest expression of who Rascher is as a photographer and artist. CKM spoke to Rascher about composition transcending discipline, constraints as creative freedom, and painting with clothes.
Before turning her focus to photography, Atlanta Rascher was a painter. In ‘Spiders and …girls’, her ‘soul bearing’ book, Rascher combines film photography and fine art for the first time; an exercise which made her nervous at first. Aware of the conceit that artists should stick to one discipline and keep their focus there, and seeing drawing as a more intimate practice of putting thoughts and feelings directly onto paper, with no intermediary camera lens, Rascher embarked on her most personal project to date. Of this decision, she recounts, ‘I wanted to stop thinking how others perceive me and just bring together everything I did, and still do, enjoy without having to justify myself’.
Beyond illustration, wherein Rascher believes that ‘ultimately drawings are always projections of oneself’, the book is personal in other ways, too. To make the project as honest as possible, Rascher organised the clothing for the photographs herself, (‘I specifically don’t want to call it styling as it has little to do with fashion, it is more about shapes and colours’), as well as scrapping hair and makeup and stripping the crew down to a minimum. These choices made room for Rascher to express herself without the influence of others. With this freedom, she also set herself constraints; shooting a minimal number of frames (around five to seven per girl), spending only 10-15 minutes with each girl, from dressing to shooting.
Visually, ‘Spiders and… girls’ can be seen to combine structured, minimal fashion looks with freehand illustration. But more than that, it feels like being drawn into a distinctive mood as communicated through Rascher’s evocative use of composition and colour. It is not the girls (drawn or photographed), or their clothes we remember most, but the way the scenes made us feel, and where they took us. This ability to spark the imagination is probably why AnOther magazine asked Rascher to translate the character of Balenciaga Paris’ scent into a photographic series.
For Rascher, her work has little to do with fashion; it is applied photography. Rascher refers instead to ‘clothing’, and rather than styling she talks about ‘dressing for the purpose of a picture’. Like the compositional relationship between illustration and photography in 'Spiders and… girls’, there is a strong relationship between Rascher’s approach to her different artistic practices. Rascher explains, ‘in a sense the photograph is like painting with colours covering larger areas, whereas the drawing is just the outline of those spaces and shapes. Somehow, I feel they should complement and enhance each other in describing an object or situation each with a different approach, comparable perhaps with speaking in a different language saying the same thing.’ Perhaps it is fitting, then, that Rascher describes dressing girls for shoots as ‘placing colours and shapes into the frame’.
Throughout ‘Spiders and… girls’, Rascher’s overlaid illustration appears to mimic, or extrude from, the figures in her photographs. However, Rascher attributes this apparent visual relationship to her enduring artistic sensibilities, form free from medium, rather than one as a response to the other. ‘I think perhaps they naturally fit as I have a certain sense of composition which stretches across all disciplines’, Rascher explains, ‘when I worked as a stylist I would also think of it as putting colours and shapes into place to complete an image’. In this way, ‘Spiders and… girls’ is another example of the transcendent nature of Rascher’s artistic eye; Zowie Broach of Boudicca once said of Rascher that, when styling for fashion shoots, she ‘paints with clothes'.
When speaking about her influences, Rascher’s approach to photography is explained in part. She is inspired by family albums, commenting that ‘there seems to be more mystery around the author or multiple authors who create images of a random mix of styles that add to the excitement.’ She is intrigued by their semi-chronology and the anonymity of the photographer; and how breaks in that chronology, such as an earlier scene recounted from a different angle later in an album, can ‘read like a flashback’. Rascher is drawn to these repetitions, wherein ‘the same set up just a few seconds later can produce a very different mood and image’. This style of observation is constrained by the intentions of fashion photography, which ‘doesn’t usually allow for such play and repetition; a different credit for every page is the objective’. Conversely, Rascher notes that ‘an expression or a moment can be so strong that the repeat outfit hardly bothers me.’
‘Spiders and… girls’ is the culmination of a project defined by creative freedom and spontaneity; working in response to limitations and opportunities, including those of form. Starting with conversations with art director Olu Odukoya, and the simple concept of producing a personal work, Rascher recounts that ‘a lot of the things happened because they didn’t happen’. Also, some unplanned things did happen, such as bringing Ann-Kathrin Obermeyer on board to style the cover story. Throughout the process of making the book, Rascher embraced the arising constraints and changes, saying they ‘made for some spontaneity and an element of surprise’ for her ‘image making as well as the book in general’. The process of making this beautiful book was labour intensive and all-consuming. But the result is such a clear statement as to Atlanta Rascher’s point of view. And, she’d do it all over again: ‘it’s a really great feeling and also a luxury if you can switch everything off and just let yourself get lost in this world you are projecting and creating. Yes, I would love to get stuck into the next one.’
ABOUT ATLANTA RASCHER
See more of Atlanta Rascher's work on her website.
You can also find her on Instagram.
WANT A COPY OF 'Spiders and... girls'?
You can purchase a limited edition copy of the book via the Galerie für Moderne Fotografie, here.
Alternatively, you can purchase a copy directly by contacting email@example.com.
Hackney-based photographer and archivist Chris Dorley-Brown on the legacy of landcapes, editing experiences and why London defies analysis
Photographer, filmmaker and archivist Chris Dorley-Brown has been documenting the changing landscape of Hackney, where he lives and works, since 1979. Dorley-Brown’s recent book Drivers in the 1980s examines cultural change through the commonplace and captures an inimitable sense of the time and place, documenting an East London traffic jam during the 1987 Rolls-Royce sell off. The Longest Way Round, also published in 2015, presents and revisits personal artefacts of both international conflict and family life, making us consider how we process war trauma at home.
CKM spoke to Dorley-Brown about his creative process, the city’s place in his body of work, and the future of documentary photography.
CKM: Much of your work focuses on Hackney through times of change. What is it about East London that has kept your attention?
CDB: The laboratory-like atmosphere, it seems to be a place of experimentation of all kinds through history and still to this day, social, political and cultural. A legacy of the industry and the docklands I suppose. A city of this size with this unique history of defiance and dissent is too good not to explore. There is always a new angle and when you think you've got it worked out it shape shifts into something new. London defies analysis. To me it's a museum of half finished, hare brained schemes. Photographically speaking there is plenty to be getting on with.
CKM: Both sides of your family have history in Hackney going back 200 years. Could The Longest Way Round, which collects and reflects on artefacts from your parents’ lives, be read as a prelude to, or explanation for, your photographic and archival work in Hackney?
CDB: I was introduced to the materiality of film and the image via my family's movie and stills. The occasions when the projector and screen would be set up would be the highlight of the year. I could never understand why we didn't do it all the time, it was so much better than watching TV.
I wanted that sensation to come across in the book, the relationship that memory and family life had with the artefact, it was a kind of irrefutable evidence to me that events had happened and had been recorded so therefore were of vital importance. Also I was aware that the moments captured on film were kind of "performance" in a way, that there was a set of coded behaviours that automatically kicked in every time that the camera was on you, so it wasn't reality in that sense but just a version of reality that was way more interesting.
This mode of documenting key events in everyday life came in especially useful for my mum and dad's generation as it was a way of channelling and editing their war experiences. They were 19 in 1939, so right at the epicentre of the conflict. I felt I absorbed this experience vicariously of WW2 as a result. This, I think has filtered down in my photography, for instance there are structural formalities in the way I compose photographs that are really old fashioned pictorial conventions that I find difficult to shake off, all verticals corrected to the perpendicular etc., it's a kind of straitjacket, uptight approach, but there we are.
Aside from that, what I found fascinating about my parents’ photos was an attitude in front of the camera that was kind of stoical and humorous at the same time which was a window into their vulnerability, seeing them as young people in their twenties I was able to forge a relationship with them outside my own memory, like discovering a new angle of empathy and love for them.
It's evident that particular generation born in the 1920s, documented their wartime experience as a way of rationalising a very real state of chaos. They couldn't really speak about that time when I was a kid but they could show me the pictures and from those I think I always had a pretty accurate impression of their emotional history that didn't need further explanation. When I work out in the field, in the east end, making images, I am channelling the spirit of that generation into the contemporary landscape, in a way it is their legacy that we live with and of course we are repeating that with our kids I guess.
CKM: In the book, letters from your father as a prisoner of war in Germany are presented alongside candid family photos, and East London landscapes. What was behind your decision to forego a written introduction, your words first appearing in the afterword?
CDB: To allow the reader to establish a personal connection of their own. The images trigger implications of a universal or common narrative. Essentially the trajectory image wise, is from a post Victorian formal structure to, in the space of fifteen years, a "modern" outlook, from lower middle class to solid middle. It uses war as a subterfuge for an aspirant class migration and this was fairly common with that generation. Family photo collections from this era tend to fall into quite conventional patterns and my family were no exception. Many relationships and family structures suffered huge strain around this time, but also there was excitement, risk as well as tragedy. There is a spirit of defiance and optimism that is pervasive. If you could get the story from the pictures, then there was no need to read my stuff afterwards then that was good. A few people have suggested that the pictures should have been captioned throughout the book, but it was a design issue that the publisher Tiffany Jones and myself agreed upon and I'm happy with the way it turned out.
CKM: Why did you start taking photographs?
CDB: To see what they would look like. I was fascinated by chemistry as a kid, but not at all interested in art until much later, in fact when I discovered that chemistry could only be understood mathematically I completely lost interest. When I left school, my first job was print finishing for photographers, making mounts for exhibitions and so forth. That’s when I started meeting photographers and seeing different kinds or work, so it seemed natural to start making my own. Probably meeting up with the Camerawork / Half Moon brigade, especially Jo Spence and Ed Barber around 1978 was crucial to my education and understanding that photography was a social and political tool. So, I started taking pictures of friends and then I think the last of the so-called slum clearance was happening around that time in London and I just naturally started photographing buildings being demolished.
CKM: In your photo book Drivers In The 1980s, your candid pictures distinctly capture the sartorial persuasions of the era. When photographing people, how do you identify aesthetics which, in retrospect, define a time?
CDB: Its odd but in the last 30 years, fashions haven't changed that much compared with how they did say between 1950 and 1980, it's still a jeans and trainers kind of convention so in a way it’s hard to define accurately a date from the clothes, I always look at cars or street furniture to date images, but probably it’s the texture and style of the photo itself which usually is the main clue, and, weirdly, the facial expressions of people in the pictures, they do change over time. Nowadays everybody knows how to parade and respond to the prying eye, we all know our best side right?
CKM: Your work includes projects which span decades, such as video series 15 Seconds, to others which require you to respond immediately in the moment, i.e. capturing the riots and the Olympics. How do you decide how best to respond to an important moment or change?
CDB: I guess once my own archive of images had reached a certain point (or size) where it became a collection that defied normal thematic categorisation or split into 'projects', the pictures took on a life of their own if that doesn’t sound too pretentious! What I mean is, that, they started to dictate to me what to do next rather me having to decide myself and at that point I felt relieved of the burden of having to start a new series with some arbitrary title.
So, I am constantly re-purposing, shuffling and re-contextualising bunches of pictures and then gaps appear so I then know what needs to be shot next to fill those spaces. Of course, events occur like the Olympics or the riots and sometimes I feel like responding to them with photos as they are too compelling to ignore. Often these days I will take a virtual walk through a place on Street View and rehearse shots before I actually go there. Or, a friend may describe the place where they live and I will go and check it out.
CKM: You have also made work which responds to archival photographs and recordings of oral histories. What role does psychogeography play within your work?
CDB: I think all good documentary photography is a psychological response to a question motivated by a specific environment, it's what photography is in essence, a suggested view framed by very finite borders, a way of heightening the mundane or obvious to a point which makes it compelling. Nowadays with digital, the documentary tradition is being fused with information via social media, for instance I may make a picture without any pre-knowledge of the territory but later when that is processed and assembled I will research and contextualise the picture with gathered information and after posting online it gathers feedback and comment which adds to its value and meaning, this process can take years and theoretically could be infinite because the image is copied by others, reposted and appears in a different context. It's getting to the point where the kind of pictures I take will be, in the future, made by robotics or automated systems that constantly update, like Google Street View. These will in time, incorporate archival and historic images fused with data, both anecdotal and institutional, added by users to create seamless animations. In effect, it will be a virtual time travel engine.
CKM: Having spent many years documenting and photographing Hackney, recently you have spent time photographing architecture on the London-Essex border. What is it about these places which sparked your interest?
CDB: It's just that the east end is getting bigger and the wider diaspora is part of the story, as it has been historically. At the moment, Hackney is a bit over saturated with knowing irony and hipness and therefore is a bit dull to work in. My pictures need a bit of conflict to create a spark and that is in plentiful supply if you get on the Central Line a few stops.
I was recently shooting in the Ford car plant in Dagenham which by now is probably completely demolished, it was a profound experience on many levels, the spirit of a quite brutal industrial atmosphere was so evident, so tangible that I couldn't speak for hours afterwards, so many working lives were invested in this space, it left a residue of energy and historical / political implications, it poleaxed me completely. The last match at Upton Park was similar, I am always looking for these sensations because photography can preserve its essence.
CKM: What is the relationship between The Longest Way Round and your other projects, such as Drivers In The 1980s? Is there a defining theme that runs through your entire body of work?
CDB: Yes, it's where personal and universal memory/experience intersect. The Drivers book was a kind of metaphor for my childhood whereby the confines of the vehicle represented the limits of ambition, so the frustration of captivity, in this case a traffic jam, became a situation that I could view from the outside using photography. The recent book The Longest Way Round expanded on the relationship between my family and picture making as being a coping mechanism for a time of trauma and upheaval. My current work is using the street corners of the east end is a way of studying contemporary urban complexity using the dynamics of architecture and human movement as intersecting forces, sometimes harmonious, sometimes not.
CKM: You have spoken about striving for simplicity in your photographs. Many of your photographs of Hackney capture a real sense of stillness in a very busy place. Why is stark imagery something you look for?
CDB: I am not looking for starkness per-se, but the spaces in between elements can be as meaningful as the thing you are photographing. It’s about finding balance and breathing spaces so the spirituality and attitude can emerge visually. I like very early in the morning, not only is the light incandescent and 'unreal' but also, I feel slightly detached and woozy at that time of day and that stops me thinking too much and that’s a good thing in my book, I can do the thinking later in front of the screen when making executive decisions about the final structure of the images. The shooting is secondary, a bit like sub-conscious, information gathering.
CKM: Many of your projects juxtapose old and new – from photographs of Hackney tower blocks years ago, revisited, to scenes returned to from old family pictures, to the changing self-image of children as they grow up. What do you see yourself revisiting in the next ten years?
CDB: Maybe I should document my disintegration from perfect physical specimen to decaying shell of a man! Oh, hang on, too late, damn it!
CKM: What’s coming up next?
CDB: Keep on as long as I can, just doing this hopefully. I've got a few years left in me and I think it's going to be interesting (terrifying) for all of us.
ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER
See more of Chris Dorley-Brown's work on his website
House of Air director duo Brian and Karl talk Sex, Semiotics and Art in Pop Music Videos
Their debut short Skwerl was a breakout success, clocking up 25 million views on YouTube, and their work has been featured everywhere from BBC's QI, Huffington Post, Buzzfeed, Gawker, Vulture, Slate, Instinct, Attitude and Digg to Business Insider.
Brian Fairbairn and Karl Eccleston, the London-based filmmaking duo who directed the iconic, YouTube-banned NSFW music video for Brendan Macleans’s House of Air, have a remarkable ability to capture the imagination of the internet. CKM spoke to Brian and Karl to learn more about the artistic processes behind their work, the politics of happy gay sex on screen, and how it feels to go viral.
CKM: The first time CKM saw the music video you directed for Brendan Maclean’s House of Air, we knew it would go viral. Were you aware during production that you were onto something big, or if not, what was the moment you realised?
B: Brendan's got a great online following so we knew it'd get a decent amount of views and that it was very shareable. We didn't expect the scale of it though - a million hits across platforms in about 2 weeks, which is pretty great for a completely independent release.
K: To be honest we didn’t think too much about whether this video would go viral or not, but we did know that it was going to be a video that wasn’t going to get a middling response, that it really would be all or nothing. I think we always approach our films with a certain kind of naivety, as though we are only making the video to satisfy ourselves and our own intellectual curiosity. I don’t think you can set out to make viral content, unless you’re making it to a certain formula.
CKM: This isn’t the first time one of your videos has been big news. Your short film SKWERL - how English sounds to non-English speakers - was a breakout hit with over 23 million views. What is it about your creative process that allows you to access the cultural zeitgeist and hit on ideas that really resonate?
B: I think in each case we've just explored something in a new way and people have found it intriguing. Fake English and Polari have been done before, but never fully dramatised. With House of Air I think it's the aestheticised pop repackaging of gay sex that has caught people off-guard, rather than the idea of unsimulated sex acts on camera being anything new.
K: The video came together in the wake of the referendum on Brexit - Brian and I are both here under EU regulations so the referendum result and what started to happen afterwards didn’t sit well with us. We were actually grading the video the day Trump was inaugurated and I remember thinking ‘this is the man who’s going to get the nuclear codes’ and I realised that what we had could be kind of explosive in its own way, even as a gesture of defiance. As it was the video wasn’t so much released as it was detonated. So the video very quickly got interpreted in the light of the zeitgeist and I had no problem with it being read as a ‘fuck you’ to the juggernaut of Trump and Brexit values. To be honest I see the commentary around the video as much a part of the video as the images themselves are.
CKM: CKM were drawn to the aesthetic of the House of Air music video: contrasting sexually explicit content with immaculate art direction and a hugely funny show-and-tell take on gay culture. Was it hard to strike that balance within the video, and how did you go about it?
B: Just by approaching the video as we would any other film project really - making sure we had a great stylist, DP, and a clear vision. The cast are all experienced performers and naturally great on camera - they understood the tone and humour we were going for and absolutely nailed it. I think for us the key was not overthinking the sex and approaching it with the same matter-of-fact POV that we were trying to capture.
K: Well the humour obviously derives from the photos. The brilliant thing about Gay Semiotics is that it treads this line between utter seriousness and knowing humour. It’s deadpan. But our video isn’t just a recreation of Hal’s work, it’s an appropriation. So whatever irony there is in Hal’s photos you have to add the irony we’re bringing to the material too. It’s kind of an anthropology of an anthropology and a lot of people have failed to see that. The humour in the video is key. It’s the humour which makes the sex so disarming because it’s not presented with an air of eroticism or an aesthetic that’s designed to shock. What you’ve got is this very objective depiction of sex with all the guys smiling, looking right down the barrel of the camera and people just don’t know how to respond to that. Ironically I think people are more comfortable seeing sex coupled with violence and surely that’s more problematic than seeing a representation of sex that’s consensual and celebratory, even if it’s not to everyone’s taste.
CKM: What are your artistic influences?
B: Lynch, de Palma, John Cameron Mitchell, John Waters, Fosse. I'm a big fan of musicals, a lot of our stuff has that theatricality.
K: Brian is very film and theatre, I’m more literature and art so if you look at this video and other films we’ve done you’ll see all sorts of influences in our work. I think the video channels the spirit of certain writers and filmmakers rather than any particular aesthetic - people like John Waters and D.H. Lawrence and Nabokov and others who pushed the boundaries of what was considered acceptable to represent in art. It wasn’t until a few weeks after release that I realised the poo shot is pure Manet - Manet’s Olympia with scat. Brendan might be wearing a collar and Olympia might be wearing a ribbon around her neck but it’s the same unflinching gaze.
CKM: From Robert Mapplethorpe to Tom of Finland, Queer artists and creatives have a solid history of breaking boundaries and setting the precedent for new forms of creative expression. Why do you think that is?
B: Out of necessity perhaps? We've been 'other' for so long, I guess it's inevitable that our creative expression is going to reflect that.
K: I think it’s a natural extension of queer creativity and resilience. We’re all born with our own particular sexual orientation, but unless you’re straight, no-one really tells you how to be in the world. You kind of have to create yourself, your identity. There’s a constant process of becoming and breaking out of bounds, a constant destruction and renewal. I guess that filters through into the kind of art we make.
CKM: In a recent interview in The Guardian, Brendan Maclean mentions your phone-call informing him ‘the pornstars are booked’! How did you come to the decision to use real sex in the video?
B: We wanted to explore a clash between coded and explicit representations of gay sex. The hankies are a way of covertly signifying desire, so we thought it would be interesting to do a 180 and connect the codes with the act in a very literal and exposed way. We're big Rupaul's Drag Race fans and had just seen Alaska's Mae West impersonation where every line was unapologetic filth delivered as innuendo - we figured it'd be funny to take that approach to this and show explicit unsimulated sex in a really nonchalant way. Obviously it's all very tongue-in-cheek, but it was important for us for this to be a celebration of sexual freedom so there was never really any doubt that it all had to be real.
K: When Brendan approached us with the material it was obvious we couldn’t just do a recreation. We knew we wanted the video to be explicit and to be honest it didn’t seem like such a big leap to make because in my late teens I’d seen all those films like Catherine Breillat’s Romance and 9 Songs and when you go back to films like Nagisa Oshima’s In the Realm of the Senses you realise that real sex has been depicted on screen for a long time, even if what’s new here is the fact it’s being put in a pop music video. The piss and shit has really ruffled people’s feathers but there’s a lineage here that starts with Duchamp and goes right through to Delvoye’s Cloaca Machine. Artists have been shitting in tins and making poo machines for a while now so I guess what I mean is this: does YouTube just have to be this vapid space where all we watch is cat videos and Donald Trump skits, or can music videos compete with the art gallery and the cinema? The thing is, we live in a world of simulacra anyway. To me, what’s more important than the ‘actual sex’ is the directness of the representation. That’s where the real audacity is.
CKM: What initially drew you to the project?
B: We've known Brendan for years - our first video for him, Stupid, went pretty well and was up until now our most successful promo in terms of view count. Lately there's been a rise in queer content in mainstream music videos - often cluelessly directed by straight directors for straight artists - so we'd been keen to make a bit of a gay statement for a while. The timing was great.
K: This was an independent project and I think that’s what attracted us most - the freedom of it. Brendan's always really open to creating something outside the box.
CKM: How collaborative was the process of creating the video?
B: Brendan's very trusting and gives lots of creative freedom, so after the initial chat we were mostly just left to develop and get it together ourselves. We had some incredible people work on this, they all brought a lot to the table. It was just a case of giving people the space to do their thing really.
K: We’ve worked with Brendan a few times before, so after our initial meeting where we discussed the photo references we had the creative freedom to go away and very much make this video our own. We assembled a really great set of people on this - given the kind of shoot it was and challenges we faced it felt less like a team and more like a community. Everyone was very supportive of each other.
CKM: What surprised you most about the reception the video received?
B: The alt-right backlash. We all exist in a liberal echo-chamber so I don't think we quite expected it to have that reach. There's often a sense of just preaching to the choir with these things, so it was strangely satisfying to know our work had reached people who found it genuinely confronting. And that we'd made a bunch of racist homophobes sit through 4 minutes of hardcore gay sex.
K: I was definitely surprised by the extremity of the negative reactions, but what I found most overwhelming was the outpouring of support. We've had emails from all sorts of people thanking us for making the video. It was cool to see some of the queens from Drag Race tweeting about the video too. More broadly it was just awesome to see people feeling lifted up and a little less fearful about everything that’s happening.
CKM: The poet WB Yeats said ‘the symbol is the only thing free enough from all bonds to speak of perfection’. A few of your projects have linguistic themes. In SKWERL, the sounds of speech are detached from meaning, and your film Putting on the Dish and House of Air reference Polari, a language historically created by the gay community as a kind of code to avoid prejudice. Both could be seen to explore the symbolic potential of language. What role does language and symbolism play in your work?
K: We’re definitely interested in modes of communication, and in a way House of Air was kind of a response to our Polari film, Putting on the Dish. That film was a drama entirely in this gay cryptolect that was only used in Britain until the 1960's and we made a conscious decision with that film not to subtitle it. The experience a viewer has of that film then is one of pure code - what you get from the story is what you can glean from body language and intonation, it functions entirely on the implicit, so House of Air is the antithesis of that. I think though why we wanted to blast those codes open in House of Air was because of this desire in certain parts of the gay community to make us these symbols of respectability. People, it seems, are happy to tolerate the gay community so long as certain parts of our experience remain coded.
CKM: Your profile in The Monthly mentions how dropping your SKWERL video lead to loads of local independent artists approaching you for music videos. Rising out of the Sydney scene, you’ve worked with many notable musicians including The Staves and Marika Hackman and you’ve now made the move to London. What inspires you most about the scene in London?
B: Ironically most of our recent output has been for Sydney artists. We're fairly disillusioned with the music video industry here - no budgets, exploitative pitching process, it can be a huge waste of creative energy and directors barely get paid, if at all. The best thing about being in London has been finding incredible collaborators - DPs, art directors, actors, etc. We could never have made House of Air in Sydney.
CKM: What’s next for Brian and Karl?
K: We’re working on a short that’s a bit of a portrait of London as well as a kind of retelling of some of our experiences here through a bit of a literary and mythological framework. We need to work out how to get it funded, but at this stage we’re just busy trying to get it written.