MOONSHINE PRESENTS: THE ZAÏRE SPACE PROGRAM

Exploring the Shapings of an African Utopia and Relationship between Art, Technology, 
and Culture on the Continent 

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A world without borders, that’s ultimately what it’s all about. What if we were all part of the same tribe? Remember? Our very own tribe. This sense of global community and respect for the craft are at the root of a movement that can move mountains. Earlier this summer, Moonshine released the first part of an upcoming short film/documentary titled Zaïre Space Program. In the 3’17-minute video, the viewer follows FARATA, a Kinshasa-based artist collective harnessing the power of performance art to shed light on climate change while reviving the ancestry language of traditional costumes in DRC. Through costumes created out of entirely recycled items such as plastic bottles and discarded objects, they invite the public to rethink their relationship with waste. 

Within a matter of minutes, the viewer is fully immersed in the environment, the atmosphere, the characters—diving deeper in the work. “This is Africa as thought through the lens of Africans. It’s a cultural awakening”, explains Moonshine’s co-founder Hervé Kalongo. “Africa is in a race with itself. We find beauty in the things we do ourselves, something that has been taken away from us for a long time.” 

Directed by Nizar Saleh Mohamed, Pierre Kwenders and Hervé Kalongo, the hybrid short film/documentary aims to explore the shaping of an African Utopia, and the symbiotic relationship between technology and culture on the continent. The title Zaïre Space Program is a direct reference to the World’s very first private space program located in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) under the then president Mobutu Sese Seko in 1975.  

“Creativity is a force for change in society. That’s the vision in Zaïre Space Program”, highlights Kalongo. “It’s time for us to stop looking at [ideas] that come from Africa from a negative perspective. We have so many things to value.” 

There it is: the vision is the message, the message is art. 

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THE ZAÏRE SPACE PROGRAM

Exploring the Shapings of an African Utopia

An Interview with Malcolm Dia by Eileen Isagon Skyers
Images by Jacob Consenstein and Eileen Isagon Skyers

Malcolm Dia has spent much of his life surrounded by photography—a medium that captured his attention from a young age. When he was a kid, his grandfather had a darkroom in the garage. Naturally, when he moved to New York to work in media (initially at Condé Nast’s GQ), he started hanging around at photoshoots, connecting with incredibly talented photographers who were shooting for ad campaigns, and magazine covers. Curious about their personal lives and passion projects, he quickly found that a lot of them also shot film. Malcolm shot a lot of photos himself—on disposables, and point-and-shoots—in fact, when I first met him years back, we were taking photos at a MoMA show on the Fujifilm Instax Mini. One thing he noticed was that it didn’t seem like anyone really cared about the places they got their film developed. A lot of our friends would usually drop their rolls off in Chinatown, or Greenpoint, whichever was more convenient. 

MANUAL became the answer to that. Malcolm wanted to create a service for his friends where we could develop our film, shoot on custom cameras, and connect with other kids who were equally invested in the idea of film photography. Beyond that, he wanted to reintroduce film to a generation of kids who were being raised by the internet—surrounded by finstas, deepfakes, monthly app subscriptions, and constellations of perfectly curated image grids.

Like many New Yorkers, Malcolm starts his morning with a breakfast sandwich, or at the gym, before jumping into decks for upcoming projects, products, and collaborations. He stops at Dashwood Books often. Paulie Gee’s is another regular jaunt. Sometimes he’s on a shoot, other times he’s on the phone all day. I’ve even seen him take a business call from an icy upstate hike. I recently sat down with him at our shared studio/office in Greenpoint to learn more about the day-to-day operations behind MANUAL, and to find out his ambitions for the future of film photography.

Eileen: For the newbies, can you describe in simple terms how you get your hands on a MANUAL disposable or reusable camera, and how to get your film developed? 

Malcom: You can easily order one of our cameras on our website or grab one if you pop out to one of our events where we are distributing cameras. If you order a camera from our website, it comes with a free prepaid return mailer that you can ship back to us. We then send back a digital delivery of your photos within 1-3 days and boom, you’re done. 

Since MANUAL launched in 2017, it has grown into this sporadic, creative community, which has continually questioned what it means to exchange images—not just online–but across various mediums. They wanted to get disposable cameras into the hands of creatives and artists who might not normally shoot film. And they followed that thread of curiosity, wondering what would happen if they started sending people single-use film cameras by mail, and handing them out to their friends. 

E: Who are some photographers and creators that you look to for inspiration? This can be anyone across art, film, and design that comes to mind.

M: Dieter Rams, David Hockney, Jiro Konami, Nan Goldin, Davide Sorenti and Deana Lawson are all great inspirations to me as artists, photographers and thinkers. 

When MANUAL opened a temporary shop on Delancey in 2019, there was a coffee counter, a neon light, and a front desk where you could drop off film. When they would outfit the space for an exhibition or a t-shirt launch, there would be no more than two speakers, a cooler, and some vinyl on the wall, but the line to get inside would circle the block. By now, they’ve put together a number of wild postings, product collaborations, art shows, and parties, and they show no signs of stopping. They’ve recently restocked their first ABS plastic reusable camera. 

E: Your summer pop-up shop on Delancey in the Lower East Side boasted merchandise, a coffee stand, and several super well attended events and openings. What are your plans and ideations for your future space(s)?

M: We really hope to re-cultivate the sense of community our pop-up shop was able to curate that summer. We’re really looking forward to working with gallery spaces, and curating more formal exhibitions. On the other hand, we like fluctuating between intimate and larger spaces for parties and events. It is a priority for us to celebrate those who take photos in the format of an exhibition, as well as create those “photo-worthy” moments in people’s lives through our events and gatherings.  

E: What does your daily routine look like running a camera company? Give me the 9-5 and the after-hours.

M: I usually wake up and head to the gym at Chelsea Piers and go swimming. Afterwards, I bike across the bridge to our office in Greenpoint and grab an egg sandwich and a coffee. At the office, I start by answering emails and making decks for our upcoming projects and collaborations. Once the rest of the team makes it to the office, we head over to Paulie Gee’s for lunch and catch up. Once we’re back, the team and I work a bit more on our tasks and projects for the day and wrap up around 5. Most nights after leaving the office, I head back to the city, grab a drink with a friend, and prepare for some meetings for the next day.

E: What do you think is drawing a new generation towards film photography—do you think that the interest never left, and is just bubbling up now?

M: This new generation is heavily obsessed with the feeling of nostalgia—hence the pull towards film photography. This generation is really pushed to think beyond just the physical and into the digital sphere, and it’s exciting because kids are becoming more and more creative. However, the allure of film photography has bubbled up as it has become this generation’s means of capturing the grittiness of life. We can see that film photography heavily contrasts the fast-paced and digitized mediascape that we have become so accustomed to. We can see that this generation, through the revival of DIY-culture, craves tactility, materiality and timelessness which film photography is adept at providing. 

E: Yes, definitely. Do you think that kids appreciate the tactile, uncanny nature of the light leaks and grainy quality of film photography as a counterpoint to the dismissive, constantly mediated space of the digital? How many people do you know of that are actually engaging with physical prints?

M: Absolutely! There is definitely a gravitation towards film photography to disrupt this constant flow of perfect and pristine media. The accidental thumb in a shot, the blurriness, and the overall candidness that film photography encourages is extremely refreshing for us and our eyes. A lot of our counterparts engage with physical prints and develop their photos in the darkroom, while others take a different approach by using only digital platforms. The beauty of film photography is that there is an artistic process and precise intention behind either approach. 

Though they’ve planted their roots in New York, the MANUAL team is well aware of the fact you can’t remain siloed to singular city-focused content in a digitally connected era. They all want to travel, and meet people, and distill those relationships back into what they do as a company. They have given careful thought to the role of photography within their communities—how we document our everyday experiences, and how the presence of a camera can change the environment of any space we are in. 

E: Tell me about some of the events you've done globally—I know there was something in Miami, LA, and plans for Mexico City. Why is it important to you to cultivate a global network?

M: Aside from Miami, LA and Mexico City, we have had some events in Tokyo, and plans to go to the UK before the pandemic began. We are lucky to have such a global network of people that also happen to be our friends, and so a lot of the events that we host globally also become opportunities to reunite with our homies. There is so much talent in this world. Who are we to shy away from these international photographers, brands, and artists? Especially when we are a company that prioritizes the work and stories of BIPOC people, it is important for us to consider stories outside of the United States and build on those relationships. 

E: Can you share more about the team members and the different functionalities of each role?

M: So currently, on our team, we have myself, the founder of MANUAL (Malcolm Dia), and Ramon Smikle who has taken on the role as a partner and business developer. At the office, we have Aren Johnson, who runs creative strategy for the brand, and June Kitahara who takes on the role of communications lead. Alex Wang is our operations manager, handling shipments, packaging, and making sure everything just runs smoothly. Lucas Weber helps out with our production, and Alexander Roth is our consultant who helps us with brand relationships, photoshoots etc. 

While they all take on different roles, much of the core team is involved in the brand’s development. Many of them are photographers or artists themselves, which makes them even more invested in the idea of introducing film photography into people’s lives. They come in and out as needed to work on materials, package shipments, strategize shoots, and plan events. Right now, they’re looking to get cameras out to more young creatives throughout the city to get a fresh perspective.

E: How do you see photography growing and changing, technologically or culturally, over the next 5-10 years?

M: Film photography will always be an important part of the cultural lexicon. It’s a practice that has survived through the decades and that has evolved and changed as new people took it up. Our goal is to continue to foster the new talent coming to the film photography world and help amplify their voices. The NFT space has also shown that there is a way to explore the digital side of film photography and we’re excited to play more with that space. 

M: The business has grown a lot. We've done a lot of brand partnerships, we’ve done a lot to inspire the community, we just released a reusable film camera model, which we’d been working on for a long time, and we have plans to make another camera prototype by the end of the year. The goal is just to continue to push film photography as it relates to all the aspects of culture that we love—art, fashion, music, design, sport—and really be a part of that ecosystem moving forward.

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MANUAL— Malcom Dia

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Matty Yu is a New York-based multidisciplinary creator and producer whose work revolves around tying up all the loose ends and turning it into greatness. Currently, he’s at a startup reversing climate change through forestry called Terraformation. Having worked alongside collectives like Madbury and big brands before co-founding No Tricks, a record label repping Radiant Children, Lophiile, and Kelsey Lu, his general approach is: "we can’t perfectly plan out everything". Matty talks about the ups and downs while discussing hype, advertising, and creating an impact.

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Multiplayer LVL 2: Matty Yu

Hype, advertising, and creating an impact

TRANS ALLEGORIES, ANTHEMS AND THE ARCHIVE: RUSSELL E.L. BUTLER

Words by Esra Canoğullari
Images by Kristin S. Rowe

It was 2016 when dear friend and collaborator Lara Sarkissian and I were walking towards Life Changing Ministries. After parking down a residential street, we walked up to a single story church building moonlit by an unearthly blue glow. We entered into the muffled sound, coming from the DIY music venue in West Oakland to see Russell E.L. Butler and XUXA SANTAMARIA play for the first time. We were consistently going to shows together to look for artists to play at Club Chai, the party we were organizing at the time.

As Russell started playing, we turned to each other and said “Who is this??!” They moved effortlessly through various genres. Even though they were playing off of a PA system and one subwoofer, Russell treated that tiny carpeted church like it was the best soundsystem and dance floor in the city. Lara approached them as they were playing to ask for a track ID.

At that point, I hadn’t seen many DJ sets in the Bay Area that were as exciting to me, to witness someone really pushing what is possible with the craft. What struck me about Russell’s set at LCM that night was their archive, tying so many disparate narratives together. I moved closer to the DJ booth to look at what they were doing.I realized they were playing all vinyl, at the time I felt pretty cynical about all vinyl sets due to the mainly white fetishization of the format. I hadn’t heard a DJ set that vast in a while, Their love for playing records made me rethink my perceived limits of that process. In that moment, they reminded me why I love the potential of records and why collecting and creating our own archives as queer and trans people of color is so important. 

I knew I had to talk to them and introduce myself. I didn’t realize until later that our friendship and the dialogues we would have would shape the way I think about sound, my trans identity and the potentials of chosen kinship with both the living and those who have passed.  

After our immediate connection, we’d spend hours smoking, talking and DJing in our homes. So much of our friendship is deeply invested in dialogue, critique and uncovering. I’m grateful to witness Russell’s continued understanding of themselves within the history of dance music. The way their specific relationship to Blackness, transness, queerness and diaspora has created a spiritual and ancestral storytelling process that is at the core of their sonic work. 

The history of traditional archiving is so much about preventing loss of information or data. What happens when you occupy the parts of the archive that have been disregarded, lost or forgotten all together? The work of uncovering and squinting to see ourselves is a process of longing, grief and transcendence; knowing there's more than what's been offered to us but being given the daunting task to do the searching ourselves. Presenting the histories in our own way and writing it as we live it. Choosing to archive or collect something is in some ways a process of grief— acknowledging the ways you aren’t seen through a decision to create a small universe of your own via the accumulation of objects. To surround yourself in the artifacts of your own universe. 

Five years have passed since that night at LCM in Oakland where I saw Russell DJ for the first time. Since then we’ve both left the Bay Area and have moved to New York, our kinship has grown and evolved through one more transition. Our conversations around transness and the way we want to see ourselves have been actualized in some way. We’re sitting together in my room in Brooklyn facing each other next to the same CDJs and mixer we had shared for years in Oakland, sharing a joint, listening to music. Before I started to record our conversation I realized we are doing the same thing we have always done, with the same comfort and ease, years later in a different city and home.

Knowing Russell as a collector of cherished objects and someone who is invested in spirit and ritual, it felt important to contextualize why they’re referred to as a digital archivist, and their recent work with A Song For Frankie. Russell mentions first working in archives alongside their father, who worked as a local historian in Bermuda. One of the most notable archives for them was the book collection that was stored in the den of their maternal Grandmother’s home. In the same room as a desktop computer, was a small library of radical Black literature, where early access to sexuality via the internet, technology and radical Black thinkers happened all in the same space.

Another notable archive was their family’s record collection which had been moved and stored over the years in so many different ways. At one point, they were stacked vertically in the corner of a room. The humidity of Bermuda caused the records to warp, contract, fuse together and unfuse. As they describe these morphing records, I immediately thought about them as living beings—bodies contracting, breathing and reacting to heat. They mentioned the clear and stark gendered difference between their Dad’s records and their Mom’s. Dad gravitates more towards jazz, jazz funk and fusion (Sly and the Family Stone, Donald Bryd, Santana, Jimmy Hendrix) and their Mom’s collection consists mostly of r&b and soul (Roberta Flack, Carol King, Joan Baez). 

When I think about Russells’ collection and musical world it's a hybridization of both of these archives and an expansion beyond them. True to their non binary identity, they took their parents' sonic worlds as a point of reference and freaked it. As they discuss the differences between their parents’ collections I laugh as I list off all the artists that Russell loves, that to me embody a true collision of those two worlds: “Alice Coltrane, Ari Lennox, Summer Walker, Future….” We both are listing off artists between laughing. Russell responds: “EXACTLY, EXACTLY, you know—these are all the overlaps. Hard and intense but extremely deep and emotional, watery and mercurial. She’s all there honey.”

When back home visiting Bermuda after Russell had moved to the US, they were given the task of sorting their family’s record collection if they wanted to keep any of the records otherwise they were going to get tossed. They remember a record that had stuck in their head since childhood and made sure to find their parent’s copy; Caricatures by Donald Byrd,where the cover is a simple black and white line drawing caricature of the musician. Years later upon re-listening to this record they realized that the elements of the music is everything that they look for in a track: “Funky, great arrangement, embraces the synthesizer as a compositional tool and not in a cheesy novel way, jazzy, has improvisation and its a record I still play”.

From June 24 through September 11th, Russell had been working at the Gagosian as a part of Theaster Gates’ piece A Song For Frankie, an installation and one of the artworks included in the larger group show, Social Works curated by Antwaun Sargent. Russell was given the task of playing out and digitizing a large portion of Frankie Knuckles’ record collection in the gallery, seated behind a DJ booth, exposing the process of digitization as a casual repeated ritual for the viewers. When I walked into the Gagosian to visit Russell, the image of our first meeting flashed into my head- they were dancing, sheltered between stacks of their records behind a plywood DJ booth in that carpeted single story church building.

Towards the end of their shift we took a seat in front of the Mariah Carey section of Frankie’s record collection. We start to talk about the way this mass of records in front of us is like a direct extension of Frankie’s physical body and spirit. Russell continues: “I would say that it's not even a body—it’s bodies. Many, many, many, many bodies. And I mean that in the living and the dead sense. Especially within the dead sense.”

Russell begins to pull out numerous records in the collection with handwritten notes to Frankie on them, expressing their endless love and gratitude. The way people write to Frankie shows their trust and respect for him and the space of feedback, evolution and care that he created for his musical family. One that stood out was the Roots Revisited, a record that Theo Parrish gifted to Frankie: 

“FRANKIE, THANKS FOR GIVING INVALUABLE LESSONS, ENERGY AND BEATDOWNS. YOU AMONG OTHERS, RON HARDY, ANDRE, LIL, HAVE INSPIRED A LARGE PART OF WHAT I DO TODAY. RESPECT!! - THEO PARRISH SOUND SIGNATURE 

PS. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS RECORD AS A TOKEN OF GRATITUDE (wish I could come and see you play).

Over the period of time that Russell was working with Frankie’s archives I got multiple texts from them saying: “Frankie really showed up for me today.” One of those moments was when they were experiencing transphobic and homophobic violence and harassment on the train and they felt protected by Frankie’s spirit. Another moment was in relation to a musical or creative epiphany. They were developing a direct spiritual relationship with Frankie as kin, as a guide, and an ancestor. I can’t help but think about how the record collection is in so many ways a vessel for that connection to spirit, and how Russell’s daily work with that archive made that spirit move right through them effortlessly.

I saw Russell play at Nowadays after they had wrapped up their work with A Song For Frankie at the Gagosian. I knew after they had emerged from this work this would be an important set. They moved through so many genres, dancing behind the booth lovingly pushing through each song like each one was the peak moment of the set. I was watching them on the rotary mixer and thinking to myself—Russell is playing the way Larry Levan or Frankie Knuckles would play if they were our age and DJs now. 

I really felt like Frankie was moving through Russell during that set. I was on the dancefloor thinking to myself I just want to run up and scream to them: “THEY ARE MOVING THROUGH YOU!! THEY ARE MOVING THROUGH YOU!!” but it felt important to leave them uninterrupted at that moment. 

Later on in their set they threw on I Want To Leave My Body by Green Velvet. A track we had just talked about the last time I visited them at the gallery and one that I play in lots of my sets. I ran into the booth and hugged them hard immediately and thanked them for playing it. After dancing with them behind the booth I looked up at the ceiling, at the pink smoky haze and refracted disco ball lights that became immersed in my tears. Through the soundsystem and through this song I remembered the power of queer and trans kin, of chosen ancestors both living and passed. 

When I first heard ‘I Want To Leave My Body’ I felt so heard and seen as a trans person- the idea of wanting to leave my body and float away into space. Something about this track felt so affirming to my gender experience and dysphoria while also being transcendent and euphoric. Making the fantasy of wanting to leave my body feel affirming and expansive. Maybe it’s not about leaving my body but moving beyond my body? That’s what the speakers are for- remembering what it’s like to be beyond a body—to collide with space, time and memory. 

Russell explains how being seen by someone’s music for the first time can feel like a stranger is reaching into your brain and plucking something out and presenting it in front of everyone: 

“The experience of listening to something and being like—YOU KNOW ME. YOU KNOW my LIFE. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW I FUCKING EXIST BUT YOU. KNOW. ME. Sometimes that hypervisibility can feel terrifying, it's like a spiritual outing.” 

I mention Transition by Underground Resistance, a track that has lived in Russell’s DJ sets for as long as I've known them. They explain how Transition is “within the spiritual channel, you can’t exactly put the experience into words but you know where it comes from and your place in it regardless of whether or not the creators understand or know that personal meaning”. 

“Transition is a track is that so many people can relate to- if you talk to anyone who has a really intensive experience of pain that is transformative, which one could also argue is the experience of being transgender—the constant reconciling with the body as it is presented and perceived within western white supremacist patriarchal capitalistic society and trying to still build it and survive within that context and then finding something that is so affirming and transformative.”

Russell’s practice is always orbiting around the spiritual channel. Creating while acknowledging that place, hoping to be there, sometimes being immersed in it and other times reaching towards it. That feeling of forward momentum and push within the channel is the transformative part. Then there’s the process of looking back, to know and understand what this experience is. To be able to take advantage of it and allow yourself to be transformed. 

“To have your molecular structure changed. To bring it back to the archive, the more you have to pull from, the deeper those transformative experiences can be.”

Russell E.L. Butler recently released an EP ‘Collective Response to Giving Up’ and will be starting a Europe tour at the end of November, keep an eye on their socials for dates and announcements.  

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A story on the Moonshine Collective by Marie-Ange Zibi 

One of those nights where everything seems right

The moon is full and the streets are empty

You can feel the breeze touching your skin, kissing your hair

You’re strolling around, stumbling upon familiar faces

It’s like a ritual, and you all know the dance

It doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from

What if we were all part of the same tribe?

You cannot fake a feeling or mimic a vibe

Looking back, those are my most cherished memories of what it means to be a twenty-something girl from the African diaspora living in Montreal, paving my way through life. Embracing the unknown, plunging into the abysses of the night(club), arms fully opened and fearless. Those infinite, sleepless, adventurous nights out, shaped me in a way that I’m just now fully grasping. The only thing that mattered was the music and its endless possibilities, but also the community, the friendships, the familiarity and the singularity of the moment. It’s all about the magic, baby. 

We all know the story; it started in a kitchen — what doesn’t really? — somewhere near the Old Port, Montreal’s oldest neighborhood. They were just a bunch of childhood friends playing their favorite coupé-décalé tracks, drinking, smoking, dancing until the break of dawn, nothing more. They were doing so because they couldn’t find that anywhere else; a space that would allow them to be themselves, a space that would play the music they knew by heart. You cannot fake a feeling or mimic a vibe. Remember? So they created their own. The kitchen floor, recycled into a dancefloor for those occasions, would welcome the best dance moves, the best jeu de jambes.

Fast forward six years later, the same group of friends are now a well-known, well-established artist collective called Moonshine. They’re reshaping the diasporic club scene, building bridges between different communities, sounds, genres and regions of the world. To go to a Moonshine rave is to meet people coming from all walks of life. I remember vividly how I felt the very first time I stepped into one of their events, back in 2015. I would recognize the sounds from my childhood in Central Africa and feel the same energy and spirit. That feeling is still unmatched, to this day. 

More than just a collective or a rave, Moonshine has evolved throughout the years. It is also now a record label and a well-rounded crew of visionaries. With their newly released mixtape SMS For Location, Vol. 4., they’re cementing their legacy in today’s global music scene. They started in 2014 and have since exported their sound and recipe to four continents so far. This new opus was completed in Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) where two of Moonshine’s founding members, singer-songwriter Pierre Kwenders and his manager (and childhood friend) Hervé “Coltan” Kalongo, are originally from. 

SMS for Location, Vol. 4 features the talents of over 20 artists respectively from Montreal, Kinshasa, Los Angeles, Brooklyn, Paris, London and more. One of the mixtape’s hottest tracks is “Tibo Tisipa'' by Congolese artist MC RedBull. Reached on the phone, he explains his creative process: “I’m inspired by everything, my daily life, people on the streets, everything. Tibo Tisipa is a reference to people spending money carelessly at the club. Les faroteurs. I wrote the song with my wife who was pregnant at the time.” Born and raised in Kinshasa, MC RedBull is slowly but surely establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with in DRC’s musical landscape. He recently joined the Moonshine roster and is gearing up to release more songs this year. “It’s really special for me to be part of a collective like Moonshine. I grew up with some of the guys, so it happened very organically. I want to be able to push my music further, be an ambassador of Moonshine here in Kinshasa.”

To understand the mindset of a collective like Moonshine, you ought to hear the perspective of another key member of the family, resident DJ San Farafina hailing from Montreal. She travelled to Kinshasa for the mixtape release. 

Marie-Ange: How’s the trip going so far? What’s your overall impression of Kinshasa? 

San Farafina: My overall impression of Kinshasa as someone who was born in Canada is that it is so colorful and dynamic. Obviously, priorities are different here, the ambiance is different, it’s very lively and people are incredibly social. For example, there’s always some kind of traffic, but in that traffic you will find people communicating with each other as if they’ve always known each other. It’s so interesting. 

Musically, the young people are interested in different genres, especially the ones coming from other parts of Africa. 

Marie-Ange: I’m curious, how did people in Kinshasa react to Moonshine, the crew, the music?

San Farafina: We had an event at Mbuela Lodge, a type of resort, where you can do all types of activities (spa, swimming, dancing). A lot of young, local people go there. At a certain point during my set, I played some new Perreo music and people were actually dancing to it! (laughs)

San Farafina: Yes, the young people in the crowd were jamming to that, I was really shocked! I thought that people would not necessarily be open to these different styles of music, but actually they are. That was really cool.

Marie-Ange: From what you’ve seen so far, what are the things that artists, musicians do in DRC that you think people in Canada or in the U.S could draw inspiration from?

San Farafina: They create songs really quickly here. We were in the studio and they did a song in less than three hours... And that song is actually fire. It’s a collaboration between Uproot Andy, MC RedBull and this up-and-coming artist called MC Azas. The way they approach songwriting is very similar to the way rappers used to do it, like freestyling. That’s the culture here, with the MCs. It’s part of their creative tools. 

Marie-Ange: Is there any particular artist who stood out from the rest?

San Farafina: I haven’t met him, but I really like Pson, a Congolese artist from the city of Lubumbashi. His music is so good. He has a new single called “Yu” and that’s a hot track at the moment. I really like the sound that’s coming out of DRC right now. 

Marie-Ange: Moonshine is building a bridge between the diaspora and people living on the continent. From your perspective, what makes it so special in that landscape?

San Farafina: From what I know, we're the only ones doing that right now. I think that in itself is special. The integrity behind the intention is special as well. Just the fact that we’ve been partying to MC RedBull and DJ P2N’s music at Moonshine parties for example… To then come here and physically work and build connections with those people, it shows respect. It also creates an extended family, community here in DRC. I think that’s the most special thing about what’s happening right now.

Marie-Ange: How are these different experiences shaping Moonshine’s vision?

San Farafina: Pierre and Hervé in particular have had a dream of working directly with artists here. But it’s not easy to book artists from the continent because of visa issues, or else Moonshine would have already booked them a long time ago. We always wanted to involve artists here in a more significant way. The vision started when we started playing more of the new songs that are rising out of the different countries in Africa. 

Marie-Ange: I was biking and listening to the mixtape earlier last weekend and something that struck me was how global it all sounds. You hear songs from African MCs but also from artists based in Montreal, New York and more. There seems to be a clear vision behind it and it definitely draws inspiration from all these different places. Was that intended? 

San Farafina: It mirrors the events, really. At Moonshine parties, you will see all kinds of DJs from everywhere and hear all kinds of sounds from everywhere. We’ve had a lot of really good people in the past like Papi Juice (New York) or Foreigner (L.A). It makes you feel a sense of global community. 

This is a term we’ve been talking about within ourselves, this idea of having a global community with similar values and similar take — just a respect for the craft basically. 

Marie-Ange: What was your favorite moment from this trip so far? 

San Farafina: It was the intimate release party that we had. We were in Maluku, it was just a bunch of young people, overlooking the Fleuve Congo, looking at the mountains, being in the middle of nature with around 30 people. It was me, Uproot Andy, Pierre kwenders DJ’ing into the night. It’s been over a year since we had a real Moonshine event so it was really nice to have that. Sometimes Moonshine can feel really intimate, even if it’s a big party. It doesn’t feel cold at all, you feel very connected to everything around you. That’s how I felt at Maluku. 

Another highlight for me was also just watching the artists collaborating on songs. Seeing Uproot Andy, MC Redbull, Pierre Kwenders and MC Azas working on songs together and seeing how it happens so quickly and organically. It was definitely special. 

21/08/2021 - Invited Nowhere, New York, USA

22/08/2021 - Mural Festival, Montreal, Canada

04/09/2021 - Art Rock festival, St Brieuc, France

18/09/2021- Hop Pop Pop festival, Orléans, France

24/09/2021 - Les Noces Felines festival, Reims, France

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THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT

Wide Edit no.02 photos captured mostly in Queens NY 

I wish I could find a through-line here and call this a series. Truthfully I have binders full of these incidental moments, and the only property they share is that each moment revealed itself to me without my asking. So, as far as I'm concerned, these are a non-series. If I made music (or had fans, for that matter), these would be the leaks on YouTube. To some, it's clear why these were never released, but to others, they're hidden gems. I like to leave it up to those looking :) I can't unsee home, family and time passing in the changing of the seasons. But I'd like these works to have a life of their own beyond what they mean to me personally.

I'm not eloquent enough to summarize the whole story, but Suketu Mehta's novella What Is Remembered is hidden in an envelope on the end page of Joel Sternfeld's book of Queens landscapes in the early 2000s (Landscape As Longing, ©2016 Steidl). Mehta's story takes place in Jackson Heights, where one character describes Queens as the "middle world.…neither here nor there, it is a place that's hospitable to all of us, any of us who are possessed...by longing."  I like this description as much as I like the fact that it's printed on a standalone booklet and hidden in the back. Its mysterious. I think that’s another quality these pictures share.

When I was younger, my quickest and most guttural response to "why are you photographing such things" was that life is dreary and scary and boring but you can derive from it so much more feeling by making pictures and staring at them. Lately, I like to envision a world on an alternate timeline running parallel to our own. A "middle world" possessing more vivacity, color, strangeness and mystery than the one we know - we're only granted access through photographing it and studying the results.

A Bizarro world, but the gamut of emotions you feel is wider, the breeze is thicker, the subwoofers vibrate deeper, the smells more pungent - everything is on 10 but in both directions. Maybe I'm 'possessed by longing' for this version of a middle world. And it works like memory or a movie. A mystery movie. Like it's revealing itself to us as we try to find it, but only in the photos that take us there. So if I’m trying to give these context, I’d say I’m writing and solving (at once) a mystery movie about this outerborough, lol. We don't know what the mystery is just yet, but we're piecing it together.

I also want to mention that the photo of Jahzair (the boy in the MILANO shirt) was made in collaboration with my brother and artist, Caleb Giles. 

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DEVLIN CLARO

An exploration with  Sunny Preston, Alana Tang, + Harry Stayt

There are a few cherished pieces in my home that’ve survived the move from my dorms through each of the rooms and apartments I’ve occupied up to now, but the bulk of my furniture is from when I first moved to Portland a few years ago. It wasn’t until then, finally finding myself in a space I planned on living in for longer than a year, that I finally turned to the world of Craigslist and F*ceb**k Marketplace for pieces to complement that which I’d already collected from local shops, estate sales, and the occasional Ikea trip. At first, the finds felt almost too good to be true; scrolling through pages that seemed endless, I was shocked at the amount of quality furniture available, and in my naive mind it felt ridiculous not to buy yet another side table. The high of each buy was a gateway into the next, and for a time I was absolutely slaying: a rosewood and leather Percival Lafer armchair, a stunning post-modern squiggle table in pink burl wood veneer, and a set of four Emu Rio armchairs are among my proudest finds. I’d feel such a mixture of confidence and impulse in the pieces I was uncovering that I sold myself on the idea I’d be able to simply flip the items if my taste ever changed, which with my new found investment in this space and congruently expanding awareness of designers and styles, it very rapidly did.

So selling online I tried, and the one time I profited 200 bucks from a pink velvet tufted armchair I’d only spent 50 on nearly convinced me that resale was the game meant for me to play. But as the basement collection of things that never sold and my dusty online listings would tell you, I never became a very accomplished seller. Not only that, but I’ve sensed the number of truly exciting bargains plummeting; the likelihood of successfully scrolling Craigslist for a reasonably priced Gainey pot feels less than somehow stumbling into Mugler at Goodwill. Certainly there are and always will be deals to be had, but seeking them out is real work. To fully commit to a life of flipping furniture and all it entails—knowing your history, getting there first, buying low and selling for enough to make a profit while maintaining an audience—would be committing to a full time job. And I already have one of those. So my attention has now mostly shifted away from the traditional resale platforms and more towards Instagram, where the listings I scroll are consciously curated by the tastemakers who’ve made the resale life theirs.

Even at the height of my days obsessively scouring Craigslist as if a murano mushroom lamp might appear at any minute, I found most of my inspiration (and most of my favorite things) from local sellers like Sunny Preston of Midnight Sunlight here in Portland OR, a shop she describes as a collection of beautiful and useful things. Its from this shop my girlfriend and i bought our fist couch, upholstered in a velvety geometric pattern of orange hues (Sunny thinks by Jack Lenor Larsen), where I’ve gotten two prized pedestals: one in travertine and one red marble, and also where I found my favorite mantle piece of the moment: a vintage ceramic goblet in powder blue. 

What I was seeing Sunny do with her shop was really exciting. Starting out, what I (like many others, apparently) thought to look for was almost exclusively teak mid century pieces that I was sure would hold value, a phenomenon I remember Sunny telling me she was so over. With each visit to her shop I felt that sentiment more and more as the offerings kept evolving with experimental finds. Of her picking now, Sunny said: “I look for quality, good design, history and character- but I also look for things which speak for themselves. Like I want to be blown away by it. My focus has shifted toward the more extraordinary one of a kind pieces as the competition for middle of the road stuff has exploded.” 

The increase of sellers on the scene and newfound scarcity of product goes unnoticed by no one. To Sunny it makes sense; she knows that the business is highly addictive. With the influx of sellers on digital platforms, where there’s no overhead for rent of a brick and mortar, she said “the cost of good merchandise has really gone through the roof.” And although she says that Instagram is the main driver of business and that most days her phone usage constitutes more hours than a traditional 9—5, there’s much more of a cost to all that’s done behind the screens. “It’s 24/7. Like it does not stop.” Sunny tells me, “I’m enjoying it for now but it is a constant evolution.”

“Buying a piece ‘cheap’ and flipping it for more might seem like an easy come up but behind the scenes the expenses add up. Just to name a few: gas, tolls, ferries, speeding tickets (lol), eating out while on the road sourcing, and restoration work,” Alana Tang, who runs In The Comfort Of out of the Seattle area, tells me when I ask what people would be most surprised to learn about the job. “There’s a lot of time spent driving, not finding anything, researching, cleaning, restoring, staging, photographing, responding to questions, coordinating delivery/ pick up, delivering, and tax season is a nightmare- I could go on.”

The idea behind In The Comfort Of sparked after a chance intervention: Alana took home a 30 dollar travertine and brass table base from Goodwill and, through a bit of research, discovered it was by the designer Artedi. Ones similar are listed on Chairish right now for thousands. “Realizing what I had found sparked the idea of creating my own vintage furniture reselling business where I could decide my own work schedule and use the profits to support my livelihood.”  Only having started a couple years ago, Alana doesn’t feel entitled to an opinion on the new sellers on the scene. “Everyone has to start somewhere and I don’t believe in gatekeeping,” she said. “It can definitely get competitive but I always remind myself that pressure creates diamonds.”

Alana’s shop is a hybrid: she has a physical space she sells out of inside a SoDo antique mall from which I bought the brass and laminate arched mirror that hangs in my hallway, and she also sells directly through Instagram, where I once quickly snagged a set of four globe-based martini glasses before someone else’s DM. “I don’t just “sell” vintage furniture though,” Alana said, “I often try to challenge myself by creating inspiring set design projects that you can shop from for a unique and engaging experience.” This comes to life most through shoppable Instagram stories that feature stunningly curated rooms full of vintage furniture that Alana has set. Each item gets its shine, and the stage is often shared with select work by contemporary artists. The pieces go quickly, but Alana has archived each of the collections under @inthecomfortof’s story highlights. “I’d like to think that In The Comfort Of is what people may think of when they want to look for some home inspiration,” she said. 

With so much more time spent in the home, Alana’s noticed people actively wanting to improve their environment. “They want to feel cozy, inspired, and happy to be home. I feel that’s where the saying, “in the comfort of your own home” comes full circle for the meaning behind my business. You can shop from ITCO to curate your perfect environment to live, exist, and relax in.”

I’ve certainly become more aware of the surroundings that have totally enveloped my day-to-day life. The furniture in my living room has been rearranged countless times these past 13 months and I feel myself reassessing the pieces themselves almost daily. With our circumstance changing so radically, of course it makes sense that this collective awareness would be the bedrock for a new breed of sellers to emerge. One of my favorites I’ve noticed come on the scene is Harry Stayt, the brain behind an IKEA-exclusive archive and online shop (BILLY.forsale) run out of London. “I had been collecting old IKEA products for about five years with vague intentions of doing some form of project with them,” Harry told me. “When we went into lockdown I felt very conscious that I was running out of space at home to store it all so with the extra time on my hands I started photographing everything to archive the collection.” His first sale this past November sold out in roughly 30 minutes. 

Through our conversation, I learned that despite his interest in vintage shops and sellers online, Harry hadn’t initially envisioned this career path either. “I remember thinking it would be funny if one of these shops started exclusively selling old IKEA furniture. I’d heard stories before about people buying what they thought was an antique from a market then getting home and feeling ripped off after realising it had an IKEA label on it... after the success of the first sale I realised it could be a good platform for me to continue selling the items I’m interested in and also build other projects around it.” Harry uses his Instagram to share some of his research/ archival imagery, but dotcom is for prosperity. “My website is where I’m placing the biggest focus,” Harry said. “I want it to exist as an online archive of all of IKEA’s most interesting designs.

Within the world of IKEA design, Harry has identified some pieces like the Niels Gammelgaard JARPEN and Karin Mobring DIANA chairs that have become incredibly popular in vintage resale. His focus is more attributed to the less celebrated, lesser known pieces “like the postmodern style ULK mirror or VAJER drawers,” that were only sold for a couple seasons and don’t meet the same mass acclaim. This approach to discovery seems to be necessary in this new resale landscape. As names like De Lucchi, Aulenti, and Noguchi re enter the zeitgeist, hunting vintage furniture has shifted from a casual hobby to something that now can feel overwhelmingly cost-prohibitive—appreciating a piece for its unique qualities stripped from the clout of its namesake opens the realms of possibility.

The success of BILLY.forsale also proves that the value of furniture can be heavily influenced by its nostalgic and cultural weight. I asked Harry why IKEA products specifically, and the sentiment of his response was evident: its accessibility makes it widely relatable. “I loved watching home makeover shows like BBC’s Changing Rooms where they were really influenced by these designers but as they only had a £750 budget to makeover a room, all of the furniture was from IKEA or homemade out of MDF,” he said. “All of my childhood bedroom was IKEA and because it’s so affordable I was able to get pretty experimental with my room. In the end I had all black and white accessories and painted the woodwork silver.” Harry also noted IKEA as a meaningful lens through which we’re able to study the evolution of contemporary design: “Looking at the early 90s catalogues you see a sudden switch from the chintz and patterns of the late 80s to the Minimalist style that was about to take over. IKEA is just like the high street clothes shops where they produce an edited down, affordable version of what the biggest designers of the time are making.” Although he enjoys the more recent collaborative works, like the MARKERAD Mona Lisa Lightbox by Virgil Abloh, Harry remains mostly attracted to their vintage pieces. “IKEA is my favourite place for kitchen accessories though,” he added, “so I’m mainly just going there now for Tupperware.” 

As the resale market continues to take off, the same rationale that’s boosted it has caused the boom of fast furniture to exacerbate in parallel. And while this more easily allows the masses to indulge in what’s trending, older pieces have already proven they can withstand the test of time. “Sustainability is one of the best benefits of buying vintage,” Alana told me. “That West Elm couch that you purchased not that long ago is more than likely going into the landfill in 5 years. [Vintage is] not only built to last but contemporary designs are often inspired from vintage styles.” Buying resale can also be a practice in building and supporting community. “It’s keeping money local and flowing through our economy,” Sunny noted.

Whatever your reason, the feeling of finding that piece is undeniable. Curating my space with intention and with items that, simply, I enjoy looking at has had unsurprisingly positive effects on my mood, and from the pieces I’ve collected as well as the new finds I see shared on IG, I continue to draw inspiration that manifests in ways beyond just the composition of my home environment. Understanding the constant evolution the industry requires, I remain content on the consumer's side of this resale Renaissance for now, but thanks to the accounts of these sellers and their contemporaries at least I get to witness.

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How Hard Can Flipping Be

An exploration with social media resellers

The day after the band released their debut EP Jimbo Demo, we all met up in a mob of mostly Priuses outside of a Tacoma Walgreens where Aramis, the songwriter and lead vocals, was receiving his second Pfizer shot. Aramis is an old friend from my time in Seattle. He’s been persistent in his quest for fostering culture and gathering community, and he’s consistently proven to be good at it. Enumclaw is the band he started with friends a little over a year ago, their debut of five songs is incredibly true to the Pacific Northwest and the most exciting music I’ve heard in a long time. My first time listening to Fast N All it was cemented in my mind as an instant classic; I5 may stretch all the way down the west coast but it belongs to Tacoma when Aramis belts it. The sound is cool and assured and the lyrics express something vulnerable and honest. “When I write songs, I'm trying to tell a story, you know,” Aramis tells me, “and so just based on my location and my day-to-day life, I live in Tacoma. And so I'm telling stories about people and things that are happening in Tacoma, Washington.” 

After receiving the dose, a bright red band-aid, and a couple of Dum-Dums from an especially friendly nurse with a Keroppi tattoo, we made introductions in the parking lot as the crew nursed their hangovers and reminisced about the night prior. A barbecue with a cake and hard seltzers quickly turned to too many beers in celebration of the EP release, one that’s already been heralded by publications like Sterogum, Fader, and the Seattle Times. “Last night everyone pulled up. Everybody’s just glad that somebody’s about to cross that line,” says Aramis. “A lot of people have been in our position before and it doesn't go any further than this.”

With us for the day is a group of ten including myself. The band has four official members: Aramis, Ladaniel (drums), Nathan (guitar), and 17 year old Eli (bass). Chris, whose honey voiced affirmations are sampled at the end of Fruit Flies serves as the band’s hypeman and “pretty face,” is here, and Benji, the self-ascribed creative director who Aramis calls the star of the band despite not being in it, rolls up last bundled in a scarf as large as he is, smoking a joint with his painted middle finger pointed toward us as he approaches in slow motion, both eyes shut, clearly still hurting from last night. TJ, in his camouflage crocs, does video editing for the band, and is also a brother to both Aramis and Eli. Ian is a holdover from the party last night; he tells me he takes photos and makes skate videos which Chris and Aramis quickly shout to clarify as “the best.” Finally there’s Graham from Fat Possum Records, who’s in town from Mississippi to scope out the band for his label, and Colin, our photographer.

The band met through a web of chance encounters and introductions involving ex girlfriends, concession stands, and a night with Toro Y Moi’s Boo Boo, seemingly most of them with Ladaniel as the central connector. They all live in Tacoma now- with Nathan originally being from an island further north and Ladaniel growing up between Tacoma and Louisiana, they both agree on what sets this place apart. “It’s just so diverse here,” Ladaniel tells me of the difference. “It’s definitely a plus for Washington. I don’t know what race my neighbors are gonna be here, as opposed to out there [in Louisiana] it’s much more segregated, so I definitely appreciate that.” They mention the views, the food, the trees and proximity to nature. Eli, who dons a stack of beaded bracelets, bleached grow out, and a face full of braces, says that there’s a perfect ratio of cool to not cool people here: “like you go somewhere and it’s like, oh shit, that guys whack!—I’m fire!”

Tacoma is a city an hour south of Seattle in good traffic. Flanked by I5 on one side and the Puget Sound on the other, downtown is incredibly picturesque on this May day with a scatter of sunbreaks breaking through the stereotypically overcast sky. Born at Tacoma General and raised in Lakewood, a town bordering the city's south end, Aramis rattles off the comforts of the city: “It's just enough, you know, it feels good. It looks good. There's real community here. There are real people here. Like people going through real life day-to-day, and I really admire that.”

While the exponential growth of tech companies in Seattle has priced the population out of the city limits in droves, Tacoma’s largest employer remains the Joint Base military installation that’s been operating here since the early 1900s. It’s a beautiful and lush city with historic buildings and incredible views, but due to a relic of stigma is only now seeing an influx like its neighbors to the north. “There’s no city ego,” Aramis says of Tacoma, “Where as sometimes I feel like people from Seattle, their biggest claim to fame is that they’re from Seattle.” By 2030 the Lightrail will extend to pick you up at the Tacoma Dome and drop you off at Westlake Station in times comparable to a train ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan; the city’s stock is good after being overlooked for too long, and the type of things these friends are making happen here make it all the more exciting to watch.

I first met Aramis through Chris, who I became good friends with during my time in school, and, having also come from Lakewood, the first person I met who spoke of Tacoma with real pride. We lived together our second senior year and our house hosted the first college edition of Toe Jam, an RSVP for location rager that Aramis was inspired to throw after an especially fun night DJing for his friend Gabe at a house show in town. After an incredible success with the first one, and with each iteration that followed suit, Toe Jam grew its loyal base of followers until Aramis eventually walked away due to creative differences with a partner who joined the project late: “no diss to him or anything, but we were acquaintances who got, like, famous together over the same thing without even getting to know each other first. I just knew I could do bigger.” After Toe Jam came Suite A, an underground label where Aramis and friends helped manage and produce content for local musicians. Suite A involved a lot of the cast that’s gathered today, and eventually faded from the purview as the group’s focus shifted more and more toward Enumclaw.

Despite having contributed to the culture of art and music in Tacoma for years, so many of the write ups have been shaping their narrative around the members’ relative inexperience; “Aramis just learned guitar and Ladaniel just got on drums, so they love in all the articles to be like ‘tH3se gUys hAv3 0nLy bE3N pLAyiNg tH3iR iNsTruM3nts 4 a Y3aR & a hALf” Ladaniel's been playing shit forever just not drums. And I've been playing guitar since I was like, I don't know, like 13 or something,” Nathan said. “They always like to make it a pull quote! It just makes me laugh.”

Even if you’ve never heard of Tacoma, you’ve probably seen it before. “I don’t know if you’re hip,” Aramis told us when we hopped on a zoom to determine the locations we’d be shooting for this story, “but if you’ve seen 10 Things I Hate About You, there’s this spot the Stadium Bowl.” So many of the backdrops from the iconic rom-com that gave Seattle such shine are actually located in Tacoma, like the downtown music store, the Stratford sisters’ house, and the castle looking highschool where Joey “Eat Me” Donner ruled the halls until the Prom of ‘99. My sister ran that movie in the background of my childhood on repeat, so discovering the school was hosting a soccer tournament on the day of our shoot made the scene all the more nostalgic as the band set up along the steps where Heath famously wooed Julia with a rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You. On that zoom call, Aramis also mentioned his plan of selling out the Stadium Bowl two nights in a row. On the day of the shoot I asked him why, and in what I know to be true Aramis fashion, his ambition had already more than doubled:

“During COVID I lost my job, and so I had all this free time. And so to get out of the house, I'd walk around the neighborhood and I live pretty close to the Stadium. So I'd walk past it almost every day. And I started to stop and think, and it's like, nobody's like, I've never seen this place filled up! I Google searched and I couldn't find any pictures of it filled up. And then I just stopped. Like, it would be so crazy if we could fill the fucking Stadium bowl. At first, the goal was just to sell out the Stadium Bowl, you know, like a summer, August, bring out some special guests, but I really think this is a thing that's going to be so big that we could sell it out five nights in a row.” Aramis estimates the bowl can host 13,000 in the stands and another 5,000 in the field. His charisma is so persuasive that, while he’s telling me this, my thoughts don’t stop to question whether or not this show will happen at all, but rather when I’ll be able to secure my tickets. There's a feeling of potential in the air as if a giant pendulum is held over us, ready to swing at any moment and bring these manifestations to fruition along with it.

“I woke up to hate this morning!” Aramis exclaims as the group gathers to head out of the Stadium. He goes on to explain the situation in all its pettiness: at the party he had told Ian he was destined to be the next Spike Jonze, which Ian tweeted with the quote attributed. That tweet was then screenshotted by a friend named Nick and sent back to Aramis. “The homie sends the tweet and says ‘and I’m Scorcese and you just fucked up’ and he blocks me on everything!” The rest of the crew is giving Aramis reassurance, but he continues, “He just thinks I’m a bad friend, like I don’t put him on enough. But it’s like I only have 1,200 dollars in my bank account! I don’t know though, I could always be a better friend.” That statement could be true for anyone, but with Aramis it’s hard to believe. Throughout our interview he’d interject with shout outs of friends he wanted to recognize repeatedly; names like Drew, Gabe, Austin aka Bujemane, Demani, the team at the local streetwear label ETC whose magenta crewneck Aramis was sporting on the day (“you can be cool in Tacoma and if ETC doesn’t fuck with you it’s meaningless”), Liliana, Hannah, and the “‘white trash homies Mikey and Dave Brazil” who introduced him to the sound from which the band draws its inspiration.

“My parents were Black, we grew up, we listened to like Hip-Hop and R&B. My mom even had a Country phase at one point. But I started hanging out with the Brazils, and their parents looking back were in their twenties. And this is like the early 2000s. So it's like Limp Bizkit is still big, Korn, all of that stuff. And then Rock Band came out,” Aramis tells me, “And I would go over to their house every weekend and we would play Rock Band. And ever since then, I wanted to be in a band—fast forward, like 15 years I met Ladaniel, and he was kind of already doing the music thing and it was like something I wanted to do, but I didn't know how to go about it. He kind of gave me the courage to do it. And then I kind of wiggled my way into what they were already doing, honestly, because Nathan and Ladaniel were already kind of a band and I was like, we should start over. But let me be in it.”

After a break for lunch at a taco truck called Rico’s and a visit downtown to witness a physical copy of the EP at ETC, we head to Bob’s Java Jive: a teapot shaped café turned karaoke bar listed on the national registry of historic places. All around the place are handwritten signs that warn ‘No Trespassing’; as Colin loads his cameras, a woman emerges from a small building connected to the teapot and asks us what we’re doing. Seeing who’s in the crew, she’s quick to drop her guard and tells us we can keep on. She recognizes the band because before the pandemic they were regulars. Driving around town one Monday months ago, Chris, Aramis, and his ex Liliana happened to check it in. Convincing themselves to get on stage took an effort that first night, but the evening was so iconic that Karaoke Mondays became a tradition. I can now contextualize the performances I remember seeing weekly on IG stories pre-pandemic, always posted alongside an invitation to come down and join in.

As we’re sitting on the curb outside, everyone is sharing stories from those nights, about Nathan and Ladaniel absolutely hitting that falsetto on Prince’s I Would Die 4 U, and Chris serving a first-class rendition of Lake On Fire by Nirvana. Everyone weighs in when a patron named Cheryl is mentioned, a former go-go dancer who’d bragged about scoring with Johnny Cash. Before Enumclaw, Bob’s of course had its regulars, but the band brought new life here, fostering community around music just like they’ve been doing everywhere else. Benji’s shuffle lands on Delegation’s ‘Oh Honey’ and as the speaker follows suit everyone is on their feet, dancing to the song, as they’ve designated it. “When I get lost, feel I've been crossed / She will be my salvation / When I feel low, I've nowhere to go / She'll be my inspiration.” These lyrics, which speak to this friendship and this moment so perfectly, fades like a soundtrack behind the laughter and chatter in this perfect little scene. “I want to be able to take Lady Gaga on a date when these come out!” Aramis calls out to Colin as he snaps the group hoisting Benji into the air like a trophy. 

Before setting off to our final shooting location, we caravan to Lakewood to set a scene atop Chris’ famous BMW, a gift from his late aunt that’s been cameoed in a number of friends’ productions. The namesake water tower in the distance was sonically immortalized by the local rapper Fice who released his hometown hit 253 over a decade ago. The song’s hyper-localized lyrics cemented its legacy as cannon immediately; when Chris plays it off his phone’s speakers everyone instinctually croons along when the bars approach: “up in the state of rain sometimes the showers / you know you’re up in Lakewood if you can spot the water tower.”

A couple days before this, the band reposted a fan’s cover of their single Fast N All on instagram stories. The accompanying caption said it was the coolest thing that’s happened yet. “It’s just crazy because I know how I felt and where I was when I wrote that song,” Aramis says, “I know how a song makes me feel when I want to go and learn it. And so it's like, to think that a song that I wrote on my couch that's half torn apart—somebody in a completely different place in the world felt a type of way enough about it to want to like play it back for themselves, you know? It’s wild.” 

Since I first met him, Aramis has told me assuredly that he’s leaving for LA or New York time and time again, but something has always kept him; the city clearly isn’t done with him yet, and that’s something he finally feels comfortable with. With the industry as it was, breaking out while living in a place like Tacoma had hurdles unforeseen in larger places, but emerging digitally while under lockdown seems to have democratized the process a bit. The roadmap to becoming a star has become less clear in this incredibly saturated era of music; while the tools afforded us by social media may make it easier to get work out into the world, using them also requires a certain panache to cut through the digital noise. Enumclaw’s online presence is both informal and intentional. Posts with typos remain unedited and their music videos, while cutty, are narrative driven and engaging, and their page is littered with niche content like Aramis’ recent Anthony Fantano cosplay. They show themselves as excited as they ought to be, and that enthusiasm is contagious. Spending the day with the band makes me feel like part of it; the energy they bring is so welcoming and genuine and to see that translate across a glass screen so honestly feels rare. The band has a new album in the works, 12 songs as of now, and Aramis tells me that while the EP is special, that these upcoming tracks are truly beautiful. 

We end the day among the ruins of old gravel mines as the sun sets, creating the perfect cast of light for Colin to take his final shots. He sets up Aramis, Ladaniel, Nathan, and Eli atop a mossy hill wearing Hazmat suits, and as they pose the cars passing by lay on their horns and passersby sneakily whip out their phones to catch a quick snap. It’d be easy to attribute this attention to their costuming, but I could be convinced it’s the band’s radiating undeniable if not fully uncovered celebrity that’s attracting the fanfare. “I think in 2021, I want to prove that we're the best band in the world,” Aramis tells me, “I want to do it all and have as much fun as possible and do it with these guys. I tell these guys all the time I wouldn’t want to be in a band with anyone else, and I mean that.”

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Enumclaw To the Moon

Over the last few months photographer Kristin Rowe captured a series of images and audio interviews with a selection of Black Women and Non-Binary Black artists who they believe are prime examples of self preservation. Sharing their space and time, these portraits shed light on the routines and physical locations that create a semblance of peace for them, in efforts to inspire those who may not know how to unplug and prioritize their needs first. The project is an uninterrupted conversation that speaks to community, wellness, inspiration and finding joy in trying times. A special thank you to Sacha Alexandra, Sammi Gay, Shala Miller and Tann Parker

Cult_Classic_Audio-5.mp3

Kristin Rowe: (0:00)
Community has always looked like showing up. Um, just the simple act of showing up because to me it's intrinsically tied to the act of love. And I really only show up for the things and the people who move me in some way. And, uh, thankfully my definition really hasn't changed with the times. If anything, it's become more amplified to align with my self-care practices. Because now more than ever I'm gravitating towards the people and the things that like support me in every capacity. And, it's basically easier to just go where the love is at and to stay there. Like there really isn't much room for anything else. 

Sacha Alexandra: (01:11)
Honestly, I've never been prouder to be black than this moment. Honestly, I feel like I used to be so afraid, you know, just to be who I am. And I feel like because of like community, because of, you know, the sense of connectedness, I feel not alone. So I realized like now that like, I'm not in need to be like afraid. I don't need to be afraid. I don't need to feel like I'm alone. And like, I just need to realize that like black is power black is beautiful and you know, like it's never been a better time to be black, I think now than to like really fight for like what we need, you know, because one day they'll look back and I hope, I hope, I hope that all the stuff that we had to go through, won't be something that the future generation has to go through.

Kristin Rowe: (02:11)
To stay inspired. I've been going on a lot of long walks, no matter what the weather has got going on. I think that was a pretty much a norm and in my life pre COVID, but I think now there's a sense of urgency to capture the world that's changing around us. Um, just because we are, you know, living through a major historical event and, um, memory definitely warps with time. And I think the one thing that's a constant truth is your archive of negatives. Like you can't change that. And I think it's important to just shoot everything and anything because it will not look the same tomorrow. And that's a fact. 

Tann Parker: (03:18)
The ways I exhibit reverence for myself on the days are harder than most. I do that by allowing myself to feel my feelings, to be honest about them and to have a personal ego check. What I've been doing to find inspiration is looking at other forms of body modification. I've always been scared of getting piercings. My last piercing was over five years ago, and I know as I grow into entering my thirties, that I want to strengthen my spiritual practice and body modification has always been something that connects and aligns my body. And other than getting tattooed, I haven't done, um, much of getting piercings and other body modification. So that has been inspiring me to see other folks, uh, with their collection. 

Sammi Gay: (04:33)
I think, ways that I've been trying to cultivate joy in my life has been meals with friends. Um, you know, that's my favorite way to connect with people is over a delicious meal. And like having that intimate time, it's so fulfilling to me, um, trying to practice having an open heart, I think feeling embodied or practicing or trying to achieve embodiment has been a slight journey for me. I'm a super heady person. Um, I'm always in my brain and like sometimes I neglect the rest of my body, especially doing such physical labor. Um, so I've been just trying to constantly remind myself of my body, whether it's taking a walk or, you know, soothing these aches and thinking about working out, um, yeah, I've been really desiring some full body connection, but it has been more of a, um, some work for me, but the joys of the journey as well. And what it could be? You know? Um, so I've been really leaning into that. 

Shala Miller: (05:52)
I think running yourself ragged or not listening to yourself when it's saying whatever it it's saying, you know, when it's telling you what it needs and you're neglecting it is being disrespectful to yourself. And I didn't really think about it in that way before this, this, um, pre quarantine time. Um, but yeah, I just have learned that it's, it's it's necessary because I care about myself or at least I really should care about myself and care about my life. And, um, um, I deserve to live well and the same way that I resist and try to guard myself from mistreatment outside of myself, from other people from institutions, whatever it may be. I have to do the same thing to myself. You know, if I'm finding that I'm resorting to, um, a conditioned habit of like, just like either being abusive to myself emotionally or physically, then I need to do something about it. Um, so I just try to constantly like keep myself in check, and try not to be so try not to be neglectful, but again, you know, it's hard. Um, and I think that that all kind of relates to, black joy and, and what that means to me and what it means for me to see it as an act of pillar of resistance. And because yeah, I do think that, you know, there are things that we have to unlearn. There are things that we've been conditioned to think and to do. And a lot of that has to do with like, you know, thinking as black people, we don't deserve to rest. We don't deserve love. We don't deserve joy. We don't deserve beauty. We are, we have no beauty. We have no, we have nothing. And I think resisting that, um, is necessary because again, like what I was talking about, you know, about having respect for yourself and understanding that you deserve a good and beautiful life. And I think in order to do that is to actively resist these things that we have been, conditioned to think, um, you know, things that we may not want to live within us, but have found residence within us regardless. And, um, so yeah, I just it's, it means a lot to me to understand that every day, that in order to live the life that I know that I deserve and desire, I have to resist and that means that I have to be joyful and that means I need to practice love and know that I am deserving of that as well.

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Kristin Rowe My Domain

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Cult Classic's Ryan Blackway talks with Kaili, a Los Angeles-based multidisciplinary artist and creator whose work revolves around dreaming up new sonic and visual worlds to break down the binary matrices of everyday life. Having DJ'ed alongside artists such as DJ Lag and Yaeji, their colorful, hybridized approach to dance music is also featured on Bodywork, their monthly residency on NTS. A dear friend and alumni of Cult Classic, Kaili breaks down everything from their Neopia fandom to their favorite rave ever, all while battling it out on Super Smash Bros.

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Multiplayer LVL 1: Kaili

CTRL: An Interview with Helsinki-based Designer Tomi Freeman


Tomi Freeman is the designer behind the brand CTRL(pronounced Control), which is one of the oldest European skateboarding brands. I met him over email, accidentally, after a shot-in-the-dark attempt at reaching out to the brand’s email address to figure out their Finland store location and hours. During my first trip to Helsinki, I would learn that he was a local presence. “This man’s a legend!” someone exclaimed at Putte’s Bar, where he’d introduced me to some of his buddies over cool, bitter beverages. Generous, humble, and downright pleasant to be around, Freeman was as enigmatic and casual as the decades-old skate and streetwear brand that he’s now fostered for years.

Like most culture-makers and disruptors, he hadn’t calculated a formal ideology around the brand. He sort of fell into design haphazardly, after putting together some boards, t-shirts, and hoodies in the mid-90s under the umbrella of the shop Union 5. Their skateboarding film SISU debuted in 1996, and it is still among the most monumental films in the world of Scandinavian skateboarding. "Sisu" translates loosely to a sort of relentless perseverance against all odds—something that defines much of Finnish culture, and subsequently, the brand CTRL. Now, after more than two decades, CTRL has somehow remained decidedly underground—an earnest, long-standing alternative to some of today’s cheapened, default gatekeepers of internet hype. More importantly, though, CTRL seems to embody a real sense of place. It is grounded within the quiet reverie and sturdiness of its Scandinavian underpinnings. I sat down with Freeman over coffee and a Zoom grid recently to discuss the origins of Finnish streetwear, ask about what Helsinki has been like in lockdown, and to try to parse, once and for all, the true meaning of the word sisu. 

Eileen: Can you tell me a little bit about the history of CTRL, like when it started, who was involved in the early days and where it's at now?

Freeman: So it started in '95. Some say it was '94, but I think it was '95. It started as a group of skaters in Helsinki, and there was this store called Union Five. So Union Five was the only store in Helsinki that stocked skate brands, like Girl, Chocolate—all the hottest labels at that time. Back then, the skate scene was already super strong in Finland. So they were sponsoring a lot of kids. But the owners—funnily enough—all the owners were from this small town called Jarvenpaa, which is like 30 kilometers from Helsinki. So Jarvenpaa ends up playing an important role in the history of Helsinki, skateboarding, and fashion. Because it was so expensive to have a skate team, and sponsorships with all the US labels, the crew around Union Five was super strong. It was kind of natural that CTRL evolved. Maybe it was first like a t-shirt, and then “let's do some boards,” and then the owners, they were like, “okay, we could actually make this a proper label.”

Eileen: So that you could sponsor skaters yourselves?

Freeman: Yeah. So we had our main guys, and set up a real team. I owe everything to the skaters, because they were such a strong, super charismatic team. You could say they were some of the coolest guys in Helsinki. When we released the first movie Sisu (1996) it got a lot of exposure, not just in Finland, but around the world—especially in Europe—only because the skateboarding was so good. The level was super good.

Eileen: Everyone was just super talented.

Freeman: So I think it became an important part in the history of European skateboarding, because CTRL was one of the first European skateboard labels. That’s when people started realizing that you could actually have your own teams and skateboard labels in Europe.

Eileen: It was all in the US at that time?

Freeman: It was just California. Even New York hadn't really started. Supreme was super small for a long time. No matter where you were from in the US, if you went pro you kind of had to move to California. But slowly the European scene developed, and the UK was playing a big role on that.

Eileen: So it all got started naturally with skateboards?

Freeman: Yeah. We were doing the hard goods—wheels, boards, and so on. Then we started doing t-shirts, and then people wanted more, and they sold out super fast. So we could introduce other types of clothing, and like actually set up a clothing line, which happened super organically. When I did my first graphics for CTRL, I wasn't the owner. In the beginning Union Five was the store that owned it. So when I did my first designs, I pretty much didn't even know how to use Photoshop or whatever. 

Eileen: Can you tell me why the first skate film was called Sisu?

Freeman: It's really hard to translate, but it kind of means you're going through, like...no matter what, you're fucking going through that shit. It's kind of the word that describes the Finnish stubbornness or in a way like...

Freeman: Yeah. I don’t think there’s an English word. That might be close.

Eileen: So with the growth of the clothing line, you started doing different kinds of t-shirts, button downs, tote bags and things? Maybe venturing into a little bit more women's wear?

Freeman: Yeah, it wasn't really structured at that time though. We noticed that there were a lot of stores asking for our stuff around Europe, pretty much all over the place. Especially the core skateboarding stores. We set up a booth at this trade show called ISPO, and for the booth I just designed some weird graphics. I wasn't really following what was happening in the states, or in skateboarding. So I think that made a huge difference because a lot of people were expecting like, “yeah, okay, they must be copying what's happening in California.” And that was the feedback we always got, was that we were just...different.


Eileen: Could you talk to me about some of the collaborations you’ve done over the years?

Freeman: Yeah, let's say from 2000 to 2015 or something there was a lot of stuff. We did a lot with Japanese labels, because Japan was really good for us. For some reason they really liked CTRL. Our distributors were super cool. They were kind of like our buddies speaking the same language and they really believed in the label. We collaborated with some stores that were selling our stuff, and with Stadium in Tokyo… 

I mean, how did you get to know about CTRL?

Eileen: That's a good question. I feel like I found something on Instagram at some point, and I was just like, “Oh, this is really sick. This is coming out of Helsinki.”

Freeman: Yeah, because I think you were...

Eileen: I was kind of looking at different spaces. Right? And then I found that party that you threw at the Beyond venue.

Kingpin Skateboarding, 2010. History of CTRL


Eileen: How did you get started with graphic design?



Freeman: When I was still studying graphic design, I moved to Barcelona to work for a year. Back then Lodown magazine was like the coolest thing I could think of. It was like super, super cool. It's still ongoing, which is pretty good for a print magazine nowadays. I sent them my portfolio and then they replied like, “Whoa, that looks dope. How about doing a double spread?”

Eileen: Wow. Now, that kind of thing just happens in comments or DMs—that feeling of like, “Oh, this brand noticed what I'm doing,” Back then it was an email exchange.

Freeman: Yeah, exactly. Nowadays I hate email, email kind of used to be fun. Now, it's more like...getting an invoice through your door or something. 

Eileen: What are you guys up to now? Or what's next? I know you sent me some of the sewing work that you've been doing. I know that might be separate from CTRL.

Freeman: Yeah, it's not CTRL. I got this old workhorse called Bernina from my grandmother, like this old sewing machine. And then I have old CTRL fabrics leftovers. So I just thought I'd make some pillows, nothing to do with anything—lockdown hobbies. 

CTRL: Tomi Freeman

A conversation with the Helsiki-based Designer

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TRANS ALLEGORIES, ANTHEMS AND THE ARCHIVE

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