The round cheeks and lively, unaffected laughter from the five children in the yard obliterated my previous notions of what a cancer hospital would feel like. On my way to the Maharagama Children’s Cancer Ward, I had mentally prepared myself to see skeletal, weak, lifeless children sitting in wheelchairs with bags under their eyes and sharp elbows protruding through thin skin, but these five kids were as excitable as any healthy, normal child. One of the boys could even be classified as chubby. Only upon close observation did I notice the plastic IV cannulas permanently lodged into their inner elbows and the tops of their hands. To be fair, these children were probably the most healthy of the resident patients.

The Maharagama Cancer Hospital treats 120 resident children, ranging from infants to fourteen year-olds, and these five healthier children who were allowed outdoors were the exception, not the norm.  Maharagama Children’s Cancer Ward is a government-sponsored hospital located on the depressingly but straightforwardly named Cancer Hospital Road. HaRah Rahkaishi and Simon Blackfoot had planned to paint mural on a wall that directly faces the windows of the patients’ room as part of their crusade to provide visual alternatives to the endless, poisonous advertising that surrounds us daily and pilfers our rights to an neutral, serene visionscape. The theme of the mural: Circus Freakshow, which causes certain stereotypical images to arise in one’s mind: A portly, bearded, tattooed lady. An apathetic bear in pants. A potbellied ringmaster, striped red and white like a bag of popcorn, standing on a box and yelling into a black megaphone, “Come one! Come all! You don’t wanna miss the fire-blowing Siamese midgets! Today and only today! Only ten cents!”

The wall chosen was three stories tall, so we had scaffolding set up, similar to the construction site variety, for the project. It was sturdily constructed with metal bars and wooden planks, and I don’t have an irrational fear of heights, but my heart would still hiccup at the slightest of wobbles, and cold, vertigo-induced adrenaline shot up from the soles of my feet anytime I remembered that I was sitting on uppermost story (which was every five seconds). Climbing up and down the scaffolding nervously, with plastic cups of paint in one hand and paintbrushes clenched between my teeth like a soldier getting a limb amputated produced uncharacteristically sweaty currypits. It took good doses of silent pep talks each time I needed to get myself back up there.

Friends came and went, offering cheese and crackers or painterly help. We daubed and colored under the guidance of HaRah Akaishi and Simon Blackfoot. The circus freakshow divulged itself as the sun departed the narrow space between the buildings and the oven-like heat grew more tolerable.

The hospital itself was a back in time, an experience I often feel in Sri Lanka, where moss-stained colonial era buildings look as though they haven’t been refurnished for decades; trains hit cows with regularity; local businesses signs are hand painted and aloof in their comical misspellings (“microvavw”, for example); a baker still comes door-to-door each morning with lopsided, homemade loaves of brown bread; and men unselfconsciously sport the thickest caterpillar-moustaches and earnestly styled mullets of another era with complete lack of satire. The Maharagama Cancer Ward was somewhere between the 1930s and 1940s; nurses wore light blue, button-up dresses with starched collars and aprons (vintage!), complete with the white caps in the style of nurses in World War II (which I had previously only seen in movies like The Notebook, or on Halloween, minimized and sexualized to varying degrees).

As the children grew more accustomed to our frighteningly foreign presence, they came out from behind the windows through which they were peering, and a few of the more sociable ones came up to stare at us up close. A young, bald girl showed one of us her sketchbook, in which she had rendered a small-scale replica of the mural we were painting.

I made friends with a thirteen year old boy from Jaffna, a city in northern Sri Lanka where the war played out in particularly violent measures. His English was good enough for us to get basically acquainted and to find out each other’s favorite food (his: sweets, mine: avocados). He had giraffe-ishly long, fringey eyelashes. I painted an elephant and a rabbit on the tops of his hands, and he told me about parts of his childhood. His parents were both killed, so he lived in an orphanage until he got cancer. That was three years ago, when he first arrived at Maharagama. He spoke with a startling lack of apparent sadness or self-pity. When I asked where he was from, he said, “Colombo” rather than Jaffna, where he was born. I was surprised again to realize that to him, this hospital is home. I remembered how long three years can be at thirteen, and how adaptable children can be.

Before I left, he asked for my phone number. Up until then, because he looked so childlike, I’d forgotten that he was a teenager with an adolescent flurry of hormones. Despite all his misfortune, he seemed to have an innocence that an American thirteen year old would have passed by.

A few of the children impressed me with their lack of self-pity, but the parents present that day seemed to have a more outwardly visible sadness that was heavy enough to be apparent at first glance, perhaps due to having a fuller understanding of cancer and its potentially terminal consequences. A man sitting on the waiting room couch hunched over like an armadillo and put his face into his hands as if exhausted. A mother carrying her two or three year old son in the waiting room looked heartbreakingly sad and drained in a way I will not attempt to encapsulate in words, for I’m likely to underestimate her sadness in my inability to understand it.

Finishing a mural means a long, dehydrated raisin-brain workday of subsisting on crackers and adrenaline, rewarded by the instant gratification of completing a project. The last brushstrokes added to the mural were appropriately climactic: HaRah Akaishi standing on the top story, painting letters onto the banner: “INCREDIBLE YOU” with the intent to pass on some positivity and empowerment to the children of the hospital. I hope that this colorful circus mural, seen through the windows of their hospital beds, provides momentary pleasure and well-being amidst the desolation of living with cancer.

Bright Sri Lankan sunlight simmered the noon time heat as Pilon and Alain set up ladders and cans of paint. After sketching a rough outline, they got to filling color into the blank wall. As the drawings in their heads emerged from the blank spaces, more and more curious folk sat themselves down in the shade of the trees across the way. The boys seemed generally oblivious to the crowd, concentrated and fueled by good tunes, gingersnaps, and guava juice.

In the ten hours it took for their mural to be completed, I had a terrific meet n’ greet with some of the people in our neighborhood

.

I met a small, talkative, middle-aged Tamil woman named Nalini. She wore plastic, red hoop earrings and Jamaican colors in her outfit that reflected her passionate and politically rebellious nature. She was on her way home after attending a Thai Pongal ceremony at the local Hindu temple. She saw the mural and the gathering that surrounded it, and joined in with enthusiastic approval. She offered the boys a packet of kiribaht (milk rice), blessed by a priest no less, that she had brought back from the temple.

Nalini was quite the socialite. She knew many of the people walking by, and called them over to introduce them to me. She told me her life story, stated everything that needs to be changed with the way Colombo is run, then pointed out the local prostitute who was walking by with her bastard baby, all in one breath. She wisely said the boys should paint murals in Sri Lankan prisons “because prisoners only see ugly walls.”

“If we [Sri Lankans] ask to do something like this, they will definitely say no,” she said in her waggly-headed way. “They will think we want money. But you foreigners come and do something like this – it’s very wonderful!”

Something about the deference in this exclamation made me uncomfortable, so I said nothing.

Pilon was in the tunnel vision, concentrated mind place of painting. My advances toward his mouth with handfuls of kiribaht were distractedly accepted. I could tell I was interrupting his stream of consciousness flowing smoothly between mind and nipple and brush tip and music. The wall began showing suggestions a wolf and a tree.

A toothpick-thin man came up to us. He was wearing a plaid, blue, wraparound dhoti. He sported the powerful and omnipresent moustache. He held a walking stick that aided the shuffle of his dirty, bare feet. He asked what the boys were doing, and I explained. Then he requested, in all seriousness, that the boys advertise his prostitution business on the wall. He even advised with sweeping palm gestures where the words should go. I admired his entrepreneurial vision, that unlikely pimp.

The earth spun a few degrees, leaving the sun behind our western horizon and us in the cooler, more breathable dusk. I saw a man approach Pilon and ask to have his photo taken with the unfinished mural. Pilon, being the accommodating guy he is, stopped to snap a photo. The man went on his way, happily. Ten minutes later, he returned, and asked to see his photo. Pilon explained that he hadn’t developed it yet. This man would return a total of three times throughout the day, posing the same question and receiving the same answer.

Slowly, the leaves and feathers were filled in. Darkness arrived, and a streetlamp lit the scene. A reporter showed up with a camera; someone had given Maharaja TV a call. He took some shots of the mural, the painters, and the crowd watching, talking.

A stunning, Burgher woman came out of the crowd and dominated the screen space. She had captivating green eyes and light skin recalling Aishwarya Rai, and natural performative skills. She went into detail about the mural, making stuff up about how the boys were painting for world peace. “Here we are, Tamil, Singhalese, Burgher, New Zealander, Canadians….And we can coexist in peace!” I watched with amusement at this momentous, first hand experience of the kind of made up bullshit some news reportage can be.

In the end, the boys had their chance to explain themselves to the camera. They spoke about how they were doing it simply to beautify the neighborhood. They noted that sadly, most of the imagery one sees in public spaces are advertisements. Street art provides a more nourishing alternative from the poisons of consumerism imagery.

Hungry hours later, the mural was completed. Whenever I walk down to my favorite restaurant for my round bellyfulof rice and curry, I pass by the wolf and the man disguised as a tree, shooting for the moon under the bright sun.

We visited Buddhist Hell on a tropical, serene Sunday afternoon. Trees with long, boat-shaped leaves swished breezily. Tranquil ponds of coyfish wafted moist, algae smells. The cracked bricks under our feet were as untended as the banyans overhead. We sauntered through groups of life-sized statues, letting our eyes roam over their nudity streaked and splattered with dripping, popsicle-red blood. Green rotting stumps of limbs among white, puss-leaking nipples. Tongues exaggeratedly stretched out of mouths like melting taffy. Tortured protruding hipbones like sharp ledges, black eyeball-less sockets. Elongated fingers and ghoulish eyes showed the pain that accompanies getting your tongue ripped out with pliers. Ribs like xylophone keys. Pots simmered with soup made from the burgundy blood of sinners. An astonishingly calm man sat in a cross-legged Indian pose, feeding his own unraveled, bloody intestines to two happy crows.

Wat Saen Suk is a temple in southern Thailand that displays this grotesque zoo of wonders for the good Buddhist education of local laymen. Buddhist Hell helps one more accurately envision the punishments one can look forward to in response to specific sins committed. Each scene of life-size statues is paired with a sign that explains the backstory of the torture demonstrated.

I engrossedly read each sign, learning the punishments that befall one who skins a buffalo or kills an elephant. I earnestly agreed with some of the messages behind the displays. One example was the rape display. I delighted in the view of a turbaned, mustached, Arab man repeatedly and joyfully stabbing a rapist’s groin. Where his penis used to be was now a splashy, bloody pudding of tattered strips of skin. Another one I approved of was the sin of “killing animals with poison”. (I’m looking at you, arsenic fishermen!) Many were quite surprisingly specific: stealing aquatic animals will result in your head turning into a fish, and destroying nature forewarns a deer head in your next life.

But some of the messages made little sense in terms of global sustainability. The one that irked me the most was the one scorning the use of contraception or abortion. The offending woman was seated on a bench, and two men twisted log-thick, metal screws into her torso, from both front and back. Another woman lay nude with her legs spread as an emotionless man jabbed her blood-smeared vagina with a spear. This is dangerous moral to instill, I thought, considering our human virus now scales the seven billion mark.

While I openly commented my approval and disapproval for the morals communicated, a few of the strangest that I came across called for neither. Premarital sex was one such confusion. A thorny tree stood tall, as nude humans climbed up its trunk, mouths gaping in the pain of punctures. From underneath, maliciously barking dogs chewed their rectums that leaked loose blood. That wasn’t all – from above, crows sat on the tree branches, pecking at their eyeballs. This display was the grandest of them all, and strangely pornographic.

Some scenes didn’t have explanatory plaques, so we made up our best guesses: “If you neglect your prayers, a deer, who also specializes part-time as a monk, will scratch your body with a stick.”

One plaque sternly stated, “Those who behave themselves as the hooligans” will turn into horses. And those who “instigate theaters to have a brawl” are given duck heads. If you do drugs, your head is replaced by an appropriately psychedelic shrimp. I wondered what would happen in the hypothetical situation that I should commit more than one of these sins. Would I receive all the punishments at one go? Or would I be thrown the worst common denominator?

After an hour or so of these violent scenes, our initial surprise gave way to giggles and amusement. But the other families there seemingly did not see the comic aspect. A pair of young siblings stared, round-eyed at the hellish milieu around them. A little girl pointed at the woman of the bloody vagina and her mother what it meant. Her dad leaned against a tree, snapping photos casually, as if unaffected by the humor of it. I wondered how literally they saw it.

My friend must have been wondering similar things. He mused, “Surely this is made for kids. Anyone over forty would think …what the fuck?”

“Well, my parents believe you’ll burn in fire and brimstone if you don’t believe in Jesus Christ,” I responded. “This is not that much more absurd.”

While Buddhist Hell demonstrates forewarnings of the devastating tortures that await one who sins, it provides a way out. Scattered around the temple were blue slotted boxes, where one can donate some money to absolve oneself from punishments awaiting. Putting a coin in a box is an easy way to rid oneself of guilt in the present and punishment in the future, but can nurture an irresponsible attitude towards our affects on our surroundings now. Like schools and churches, Wat Saen Suk is another way to create maneuverable, conformed citizens for minimally disturbances in the functioning of a society. If anything I find it perfect for an amusing afternoon of stimulating photography.

“I’m creating a photo, so it’s then not just a photo; it’s a piece of art as well.”

The 26 year old Kiwi from Christchurch, New Zealand is a Barista by ‘safe’ trade and Photographer and fine artist by dream trade. But this is not so much a dream anymore; hard work and good fortune over the years has allowed her to work as an event photographer- quite successfully so far. “Pharell, (American hip-hop artists and producer) I can put Pharell on my CV. And Bear Grylls, I’m a big fan of Bear Grylls.”

Arriving in 2004 to study at Wellington’s Massey University campus, unexpectedly, it was two men in particular that put her on the path she is on now. First, her tutor who she says was amazing and managed to convince her she had a good eye for ‘stuff’ when she initially wanted to study sculpture and painting and do photography on the side. And secondly the boy she was dating in 2008 who had a few friends hosting gigs around Wellington. “I went along and took some photos and put them on Facebook. It was really low key…But then I started getting emails from promoters inviting me to come photograph their other gigs.”

Her mum had said she was always running around with a throw away camera when she was little, “So I suppose I have always been one of those, constantly taking token photos”. From token photos to a ‘new project’ screen on Photoshop, mixing fantasy and reality is one of her favourite subjects and a tactic, it seems she is becoming very good at.

Though some turn away from altering their photographs in Photoshop Melissa is embracing technological advances in her latest works. “I want people to really engage with my photos and question why I’ve shot what I have…Some people are against it [digital manipulation], and that’s cool. But I am a fan of it and I enjoy it. I look in magazines and am overwhelmed by the talent. It’s just beautiful. ”

Pat Brassington, an Australian artist who also works with digital manipulation was a major influence in Melissa at university. “She basically blurs fantasy and reality together and brings a really surreal aspect to her work. She has a beautiful colour palette…which is where I first considered digital manipulation to that extent. Her work was very quirky and bizarre and she was really testing the viewer in her work…also she was very sexual provocative with underlying messages which you found out about when you read the explanation about the piece.”

Melissa has so far found people are very encouraging of her work. “I’ve had heaps of emails where people ask: What lens were you using? Or even, what setting were you on”? She laughs, “Well I kinda change it up a bit. I don’t just shoot on one setting…” She’s just kidding, but her work doesn’t. It’s moody and serious but also quirky and cheeky. Melissa chuckles and agrees that like the work of her muse, Pat Brassington, qualities like quirky, bizarre and sexually provocative are concepts that resonate with her and translate to her art.

You may have been wondering where we’ve been for the past month. Fear not, we are still alive and have been off on adventures again. As I write this the SIDEROOM.COM team are spread across the globe causing creative mayhem in Sri Lanka, Cambodia, Auckland and Chile.

We apologize to you all for the lack of updates, but be assured we are collecting amazing stories along the way and as always plotting great schemes for creative world domination. You will hear about it all very soon.

Thank you to everyone who has sent in submissions. I promise we haven’t forgotten you and they will be posted as soon as we are back in the world of reliable internet.

Much Love

The SIDEROOM.COM crew.

It isn’t everyday that one can paint on a wall without having to worry about getting in trouble for it, being harassed by cops, or with hushed whispers cloaked in the darkness of night. As I lifted my brush and synchronized its first, careful acquaintance with the pristine wall, I was flooded with an illicit feeling no doubt instilled in me from the punishment resulting from wall-coloring as a child.

However, on that day and place, we were allowed to paint and welcomed to do so. The Don Sol Tourism Office offered us a wall next to their entrance doorway, and along with it a chance to produce a visual that conveys a message of importance. Pilon and I knelt and crouched, squinted and focused, putting brushes to wall to depict the fluid bodies and small, peppercorn eyes of the whale shark. We documented our progression and digression with a camera on a tripod, clicking the shutter every few minutes, adding shots to a stop motion which, when watched in a stream succession, divulged images that slowly crawled onto the wall, patch by line by dot, as ivy jaggedly engulfs a demolished building. Each time I came out of the pleasurable stillness that soaked my hours, induced by the attentiveness of painting, I became aware of watchers. A quiet, inactive group of Filipino shopkeepers kept watch over our murals development the whole two days, laughing from time to time at the enactments of the silly ideas we had to make our stop motion paint process more entertaining. A kind owner of a local coffee shop who, with owl-like powers of observance, noticed our afternoon weariness gifted us with free and heartfelt coffee made from beans which he took great pride in. Jarek, who worked at the Tourism Office, brought us cookies, which we enthusiastically crunched down on like crows hungrily downing the rotting piles of fruit peels in a garbage dump. Paint, paint paint. Two days of it, layer upon layer, sometimes painting on top of what we had just meticulously completed, for the sake of stop-motion, all under the warm blanket sun and intermittent gray skies releasing pinprick raindrops. The most special parts of this project were the frequent interactions we had with passerby. We were painting at a prime location for being seen – by the dock where people left from and returned to on their whale shark snorkeling tours. The mural drew people to us with questions; most commonly, ”What are you doing this for?” which gave us an opportunity to spread the word about the plight of sharks and the gluttony of the human virus. It is a different story from passing out fliers when someone approaches me with questions. There is often more openness, curiosity, less apprehension. We invited anyone who showed interest to contribute to the stop motion, to get in front of the camera and dance, pose, or release whatever creations came out of their bodies. People of differing ages and lands gave us poses, flaunts, smiles. A beautiful, genderless Filipino person came to pose prettily, with a flower behind ear, flirtatious and coy. By the time the sun set on the second day, a large, spotted, and grinning whale shark dominated the wall in a whoosh of movement, with thrasher sharks silhouetted behind her. Blue and yellow, bubbly letters, reminiscent of art of the hippy generation declared, ”Love sharks, love Don Sol”. Paint-streaked limbs, bodies marinated in sunscreen, sore, elderly backs, and the particular feeling of achievement one feels when completing an project in which one can clearly see the results filled our beings. These were quickly replaced with the proverbial longing for a Giddy’s vegetarian pizza. ”Ay, amigo,” Pilon said thoughtfully. ”What dost thou think of a jug of wine and a pizza?” Neither of us mentioned the piteously dwindling remains of our veganism. ”Si,” said I. As we walked away, I could see the newly-born butanding’s speckled soul arise out of her, into the sun’s afterglow.

Growing up in mountains of Virginia, Jade McCully had a fondness for snakes, ruffled socks, playing with her big sister, and asking about a thousand questions a day. That same curiosity still pushes her, but now her camera can document everything she loves, wants to know more about, or finds beautifully interesting. Jade finds her world impossibly curious and is attracted to everything around her.

Her featured work, “Going Home,” investigates Jade’s personal experiences through details of light, space, and objects. According to Jade, “They allow me to ask the questions about my new family, whom I find mysterious, and to answer them honestly. Exploring my environment with my husband Matthew, my new in-laws, and the Deep South. Family is the cohesive element that ties the pieces in this body of work together. My photographs journal what comforts me, what intrigues me, and what is so mystifying about my every day life. They remind me of the stories I have to tell, and invite the viewer to stand in my shoes, to feel my pain, my curiosity, my amusement, and to become a part of my surroundings and my story.”

OUR PHOTOGRAPHS ARE NOT…

Staged. Everything is real life.

PHOTOGRAPHING WEDDINGS CAN BE…

Exhausting. Staying up and keeping people laughing while concentrating on taking unusual compositions and truly capturing couples’ emotions can wear you out. It is also one of my favourite parts of the job!!

TOOLS OF OUR TRADE ARE…

Fixed Lens, Natural Light, and a constant curiosity to explore the world around me.

WHERE WE ARE NOW IS…

Savannah, GA (for today at least)!!

WHERE WE WERE BEFORE…

Mississippi, North Carolina, Virginia

THE BEST THINGS ABOUT JAPAN ARE…

The quiet, the natural beauty, the rich history, and all of the walking to get to those places, as well as good eats!

THE WORST THINGS ABOUT JAPAN ARE…

Their use of fur as a form of fashion.

JAPANESE PEOPLE HAVE…

A different approach to life then I do. Everything seems to be black or white, very structured.

MISSISSIPPI…

Could be one of the strangest places you could ever be.

THE STRANGEST DREAM I EVER HAD WAS…

All of my dreams come true in some way. It is kind of fascinating to envision something in a dream and watch it come to life. But this is one of my weirdest dreams I ever had… It was a recurring dream while in middle school, every year before school started. I would be at the top of a hill trying to get down to the ʻsafeʼ house that was like a McDonalds (donʼt know why)! But there were wolves on the hill that we had to get past. So it was a struggle to reach the ʻbase.ʼ We always got down the hill safely but there were always different obstacles to overcome. Weird I know!!

THE WORLD RIGHT NOW, THE WAY I SEE IT…

Everyone needs to learn from one another as opposed to fighting one another. Everyone has a story to tell and a different way of looking at life. If we could accept that and move on to create a better place, we would all benefit from it. Greed is a dirty dirty thing.

IF HAD IT MY WAY I WOULD…

Be travelling all the time.

THE BEST PLACE I…

Ever visited was Montreal. And I must say it was in the summer time so I missed the wintry weather. It was the perfect mix for us – dog parks, a walking and biking city, good food and open-air farmers markets. As well as good coffee!! I have never felt more relaxed.

IF I COULD EAT ONLY ONE THING FOR THE REST OF MY DAYS IT WOULD BE…

I love to eat well and my husband is the best cook in the world so I would say his food!! Yum!

DONʼT TRUST…

When things seem to good to be true. But always trust your instincts.

SOME PEOPLE…

Love you some people don’t.

THE BEST ADVICE…

I ever received was be yourself. I have followed a path that I have put in to place. I followed my dreams, listened to my heart, and worked my butt off. Oh and to wake up one time every year to watch the sunset. We always wake up on the first day of the New Year and go watch the sun rise. Then we have a glass of champagne, eat a cupcake, and go back to sleep with our doggies in bed. It reminds me that life is what you make it.

Also, words every photographer should live by – “If you don’t have your camera you can’t take the photo.” – Jay Maisel.

EVERY DAY I…

Stretch! I love to do yoga and run. There is nothing better then zoning out and listening to your body.

TREASURE…

Your life.

Want to see more of Jade and Matthew’s work? Check out:

jadeandmatthew.com
blog.jadeandmatthew.com

On a chilly afternoon of quivering gingko leaves in the glitzy shopping district of Ginza, Tokyo, a pack of animals and animal-lovers, humane humans and human-animals gathered. They had a message for the Tokyo-ites indulging in a Sunday afternoon of consumption. The Anti-Fur Demonstration began as the group emphatically raised their voices to the sky, holding up heart-gripping signs of truth. They joined in solidarity and marched through the streets, in step with the rhythm of what felt necessary and just.

A few came dressed as animals, some cute and some grotesque – pink-eared rabbits; a snow owl; triumphant, bloody, chortling wolves with fists upheld. Fur jackets bobbed in the air, smeared with a convincing thick, gummy, blood substitute, looking more like the remains of a slaughter in the plains of Tanzania than something that would be seen in the urban panorama of Ginza.

Posters displayed de-furred animals that resembled mutilated, crimson-dark meat; a glistening blood scab of a roasted animal, eyelashes blood-soaked and dried stiff, protruding like dandelion leaves. The hour I spent behind one of these posters was not enough to de-sensitise me; chicken bumps of empathy and disgust covered my arms and cheeks.

In most of the developed world, wearing real fur has become a social taboo – a mark of uninformed cold-heartedness. However in Japan, this stigma is not upheld, and fur is as commonly seen in the streets as dentist facial masks during flu season. This autumn in particular, fur garments have dazzled many a fashionista with their societal symbols of financial status and luxury.

Deconstructing the Myth

A common misconception is that fur is a by-product of the meat industry, a result of “using all parts of the animal.” While this is true in some cases, animals farmed primarily for fur make up a growing part of the industry.

These creatures are generally imprisoned in conditions of tremendous suffering. Cages are filthy, have little or no space for movement, and are mercilessly exposed to wind, rain and sun. Some animals spend their entire lives crammed in storehouses, and see their first rays of sun only when they are taken outside to be killed.

Even a creature born in to such darkness feels the instinctive need for grass, sky and the freedom to roam. The deprivation of these essential conditions drives animals to a state of distress, causing them to pace frantically, over-groom their fur, digging claws into other animals and ear biting.

A Day in the Life (POV – Rabbit)

Rabbit fur is a popular industry in European countries such as Denmark, Spain, Italy, and France, yet what happens within the walls of a fur farm is often hidden behind a blind disinterest. The mortality rate of rabbits (15%) is the highest of any commercial animal farming in the world today.

In a Danish rabbit fur farm investigated by Coalition to Abolish the Fur Trade (CAFT), each rabbit was given a cage the size of two shoeboxes. The rabbits are unable to hop, dig or even sit up with ears erect, which leads to a painfully deformed spine. Imagine being stuffed under a sink for a lifetime – the resulting back pains, not to mention psychological scars.

The first assault to the senses upon entering a rabbit storehouse is the overwhelming smell of faeces. The cages are stacked in such a manner that the waste that streams in to the cages below, the bacterial fumes causing numerous respiratory and eye diseases.

Reproduction is artificially designed. Bright lights are kept on for 16 hours a day to simulate the summer season in order to increase mating levels. When the rabbits won’t mate naturally as a result of high stress, females are artificially inseminated with forceful methods. Up to 11 litters of babies are forced upon her, with only three days between each gruelling process.

Fur farms are known to cut costs by using unethical killing methods that do not honour the life of the animal. Suffocation, electrocution through the anus, gas, poison, repeated shots or blows to the head are all commonly employed techniques. Another method is to hang the animal upside down, slit the throat, and let the animal thrash as the blood is drained out slowly. While common law states that an animal must be electrocuted to the point of unconsciousness before having its throat slit, a recent rabbit farm investigation by CAFT revealed this law is rarely adhered to.

China: The Land of the Free

Many Western fur businesses are now relocating to China, a land where fur farms are cheaper to run and few animal rights laws are enforced. Here there is a high probability of inhumane practices; in some cases animals have been bludgeoned to death using baseball bats or other hard sticks to minimise the burden of thrashing movement for the the skinner. 50% of the fur sold in the USA is from China, however many furs manufactured in China are purposefully mislabelled ‘European.’

Even if you do not wear fur this issue is still a collective responsibility. Remember: It can take 25 lives to make just one jacket. Yet there are many affordable textiles created from plant matter that are capable of keeping us warm.

Want to know more or find out how you can help?

Check out: peta.org
Japanese: alive-net.net
English: alive-net.net/english

At first glance, Nao Harada, aka Wrecks, appeared to be another needle in the endless haystack of modern Tokyo artists and designers. But after a few Mexican brews, so-cal style cheese burritos (the best in Tokyo by the way), and conversation ranging from Russ Meyers busty starlets to wedding parties with Ray Barbee, I began to realize this skinny Japanese guy came across more like an old skate blood brother  than a blind dinner date. And therein lies the relevance behind the artist and a window into the person.

Flash forward countless shared bottles of Hoppy and Shochu and it’s a hazy present day. That same skinny skate rat, who I now refer to as a close comrade in crime, never ceases to astound or amuse me. The more I get to know Nao, the more his artistic style reveals it’s true grit and honest origin directly related to his everyday life.

In the vein of American wise men such as Mark Twain and Hunter Thompson, Wrecks is in every sense a modern day street poet channeling his keen lyric and observant word through unapologetic art and telltale design.

Like most poets, the work mirrors the surrounding stimuli. In Nao’s case it’s the bloated consumer-crazed nexus that is Tokyo. In a city that force feeds pop culture at breakneck velocity and where peer acceptance is as critical to one’s social survival as multiple wives are to Warren Jeff’s', it eases me to sleep at night knowing a lone ranger stalks the streets with the balls to give it all the middle finger, call it like it is, and kick-flip to his own drummer.

Often laced with clever sarcasm and jocular kid-like depictions of desolate chickens or victimized sharks knockin on heavens door, Wrecks’ approach to his art is much more than skin-deep, it’s a lifestyle worthy of subscribing to.

-Tre Packard

Wrecks is….I’m seriously not sure what it exists for. I just started it to make some tees years ago. Sort of to hide my real name, also I think it probably seems like a brand, I don’t know. Anyway I’ve been using this name for something like projects or work. I mean not for my personal work. It’s kind of complicated. Not a big deal though.

I’m from…Japan.

Now I live in….Hell.

I paint sad chickens because….Somehow painting sad chickens makes me comfortable. I maybe want to express sadness, which every one should have. Life is tough all the time, and happy people have to have bad things like death, cancer, accidents, any small unlucky shit. I guess babies are very pure and almost 100% happy, but already live in this fucked up world. That’s pretty sad. Some animals are sad too. Maybe not. I don’t know. I’m totally not negative anyway. I just don’t like to draw positive things, or pretend like I’m a happy guy. That’s bullshit. Anyway I’m sure that I’m kind of happy in the end.

Being an Artist in Tokyo….Sounds like hell. But honestly I have no idea. I’m not a real artist or not like a person who wants to sell well.

English is….a good way for me to express something. Japanese just looks whack to me and tough to design or paint. Also English has given me many friends. If I couldn’t speak English at all, I couldn’t live like this now. I couldn’t have this interview either.

I love….Drinking, sleeping, snorkeling, skateboarding, painting and cooking.

I hate….Something boring that doesn’t change. I want to do different things every single day. I really hate to feel like I did the same thing yesterday.

Work is….Very important. But I hate work. I want to get $$ without working.

If I didn’t Skateboard I would….Nothing can replace skateboarding. At least I need to skateboard to transport me.

If I choose one thing to eat right now it would be….Monjayaki.

I’d wash it down with….Shochu. Potato one.

I have been to….South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Laos, Mexico and the States.

I want to travel to….Definitely South America.

Japan is….Weak and closed. But Japanese food is the best in the whole world.

If I didn’t live in Tokyo I would live….Near Tokyo.

Because….I can’t leave this area

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