'TRACKSUITS' : Tangier, Morocco - Early October →

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“Tangier is one of the few places left in the world where, so long as you don’t proceed to robbery, violence, or some form of crude, antisocial behaviour, you can do exactly what you want.”
- William Burroughs.

After the majority of the 45 minute boat ride from Tarifa was absorbed in a conga line of restless travellers, eager to have passports advance stamped by two bemused cops, we rolled out of the jaws of the gangway into the blazing mid-day swelter of the port of Tangier. The idea of this is, in itself, quite remarkable - that from the port bollards, you can glance over your shoulder, across the watery haze of the Gibraltar Strait, and glimpse the mountains of Andalucia, and the liberties of western Europe, and yet, in less than an hour, you are on the continent of Africa, and it’s a whole new ball game… We were in the fabled city for only a precious, short time, before boarding the train for Tara Steven’s Cooking School in Fez. This was our key reason for diving South, to spend a week at Dar Namir, Tara’s 400 year old town house in the most ancient part of the old city, to wander the Medina, shop and cook together, with Tara’s priceless insights and experience…(More on that later…) So, the clock was running for us to explore Tangier, home to a vivid history of expatriate writers, artists, musicians…Burroughs ‘the invisible hombre’, the mythical Petit Socco loved by Tennessee Williams, the Immeuble Itesa apartment residence of Paul Bowles, Kerouac, Matisse, Led Zeppelin and the Stones, who all breezed through, at one time or another… “Hey Mister…You wanna fly before you die?”… The soft, reclining voice issued casually from the shadow of an archway. The voice belonged to a kid in a tracksuit, stretched out, supine, across a sack of cloth. We barely heard it as we were rushing to meet with Abdullah, to take us to the house of Jean-Paul, in the French Quarter. No need to give it the brush off, there was no sleeve pulling in that voice, it was far from hard sell, but it had to have a go… After dropping our things at the house, we headed back out, and down into the Medina. We were exploring the city walls overlooking the port, when another face appeared… ‘Hello Señor, how are you? …Do you know what? You look like me. Really. You could be my brother. What is your name?’…Another young Moroccan, was making his intro, this one with a fresh buzzcut, and again head-to-toe in new season activewear. His face was kind and open, so we chatted as we ambled along, on our way to our dinner date at the spectacular, but suggestively named Hotel Nord Pinus…In no time flat, this young chancer was joined by his protege. This guy, was obviously the leading hand. He bristled with swagger and blag from his handsfree earpiece, down to to his newest/latest kicks. He had materialised to take the reins from the apprentice, and show how it’s done. ‘So, we have a date yes? Meet here tomorrow, 10 am, ok? Yes? I show you the House of Paul Bowles, Edith Wharton. You like writers? You have dinner, now? Where? I show you…Ok. No problem. We meet here. Tomorrow. I show you everything…’ They dropped us at our doorway, and sauntered off together, back down into the Medina, the tandem flash of the reflector stripe work on their hi-tops atomised in the dusk of another fabulous Kasbah evening…

It’s a hard fact you often discover when crossing borders, that it is really only a random act of birth that separates us from those who cannot enjoy a freedom of movement, which we take for granted. Not having this opportunity to explore other cultures, and perhaps never having this opportunity, must amplify, the thoughts of the young people who I witnessed gathering each evening at the ocean cliff park, adjacent to the rooftop terraces at the house where we briefly stayed. Perhaps it was simply to catch an ocean breathe of evening air, but it also might have been to capture a longing glimpse of a mythical West and all that the imagination might supply that with. To be so close to something that may be forever unattainable, but clearly visible, no more than a short, but impossible boat ride, must be a torment. Without money or education, a visa is hard to come by in Tangier. You simply won’t get one. Yet, it was the Moors, who once presided over large swathes of southern Spain and left their indelible mark. We’d just toured through these places. We’d seen it. Their exquisite influence was everywhere: in the streets; the architecture ; the citadels; the palaces, in the tile and the textiles. Yet for these young Moroccans, the idea of Europe is quite impossible, at the moment. So these gatherings at the cliff edge, to gaze across the water to the mountains beyond, as Tara later pointed out to us, might be a last, unrequited sigh…

We were pretty clear on what the game was. In fact, we had a wager, on how long before the tour would wind up and we’d be deposited at his Uncle’s Rug shop…But we agreed to keep the date. Fair go. The problem was, we made a few wrong turns, and were now running late…When we arrived at the archway, the boys weren’t in sight. They had explained that a big cruise ship was coming in to Port that day, so it would be busy for them, so maybe they had had to cut and run…
The loud shout told us he’d found us. Hurtling down the hill, calling to us in delight, he made a breathless stem-christie and pulled up before us, resplendent in an immaculate, dove grey Adidas ensemble. He seemed delighted to see us, the previous night’s air of hubris had evaoprated, in fact, he seemed quite humble, even a little crestfallen. I felt for him in that moment. We apologised, and agreed to let him take us on his tour. ‘Where’s your friend?’ ‘He can’t make it…he’s got school…C’mon, I take you to the house of Paul Bowles…’ Just like Peaches sang: Stay in school -cos it’s the best. Good idea.

Anyway, it was a flying tour of literary haunts, and of course we did end up in the rug emporium,
where they were waiting for us. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t have to buy anything, if you don’t want. No problem…’ The fee was only for delivery. So, after managing to face the onslaught and back out respectfully, we found ourselves finally out on the bustling Kasbah street. We shook hands, which enabled me to place the amount we agreed with him directly. At this point, he was glancing around quite nervously, it was only later explained, that the penalty for ‘unofficial’ tour guiding is as severe as a short spell in jail. Not a fun place in Morocco. We shared a hug. The energy in that brief embrace, told me we both understood the situation: There was nothing to regret for going about your business. He was a going to continue to take his chances, and he was was going to be fine, perfectly ok. But I remember thinking, I hope his mate, the one who looked like me, sticks to his A-game, and stays in school. Muchos gracias, mi caballero. Shukran. Take care of yourself.

Xo
HS

Memory Lane: First Floor - Mural Art Project


Back in the early 2000’s was an exciting time to be kicking around Melbourne, trying to make things occur. I’d been working in film & tv for around a decade. I’d witnessed the ferment and excitement of ‘big’ Movie productions, bumping into the Fox Studios in Moore Park in Sydney, where thousands of dedicated people were working their butts off thinking this was the beginning of a motion picture revolution in Australia, and they were snug inside the golden gates. I remember sitting on the edge of a roadway inside that dream factory, sharing a cuppa with the fabulous Ewen McGregor, who pulled off his motorbike helmet, and squatted in the gutter next to me (a total nobody at the time), and we chewed the fat for a while. He was in between takes as ‘Obi Wan’ and due back any minute at Sound Stage 2 for his green screen pickups on ‘The Phantom Menace’ where he would be required to parry an onslaught from a grip with a tennis ball on a stick. He was in no particular hurry to get back. It was a golden time, for sure. A few years later, when the ass comprehensively fell out of the pants of the local film industry, I found myself flogging hand-made screen printed tees from the back of my XB panelvan, at one of the first Meredith music festivals, and decided that I was not going to the next Sergio Leone, Philip Noyce, William Friedkin or even Dario Argento, and decided I’d give the world of ‘independent streetwear’ a crack. At least I knew I’d be able to get my stuff seen. It was the now legendary FAT emporiums that made this possible for more fab designers than just myself. We ended up in ten independent design stores nationally, before a chance encounter with Laki from ‘First Floor’, on Brunswick street presented another challenge for us as visual communicators. Laki owned the Veggie Bar, across the road, and had done very well with his augmented baked potatoes over the years, so was now branching out as a nightclub entrepreneur. He was having a problem with his dance floor and ‘chill out’ area though. No-one seemed keen to go in there, and stay there and it clearly wasn’t working. So in a chat over a few strong drinks, we decided to have a crack at mural art. Laki was very enthusiastic about the idea we presented a week later. An idea that remained in situ for around eight years, outsurviving several owners and re-fits. Inn fact, it became synonymous with the club. Anyway, the scene was taken from Alan Pakula’s movie ‘Klute’ which starred Jane Fonda, Roy Schneider and Donald Sutherland. The moment in the film takes place in a nightclub. At one end of a dance floor we see a stoned couple on couch, with a shot-reverse of Donald on the opposing wall. The moment this happens is only a few frames, which are intersected by the limbs of patrons across a dancefloor. We blew this moment up XXL big as digital print, 24 square metres in total. Anyway, we were really proud of our first furtive attempt to capture the imaginations of an audience and make them feel something, when it was not really being done anywhere else. Now mural art is inextricable with inner city Melbourne. The city has got got full glorious sleeve tatts, now, but at that time it was still quite on the cusp. Good one Laki. Good one Fat. Great times.

Enjoy.
xo
HandSolo

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ART HEROES: RENNIE ELLIS 1940-2003

It’s the end of Summer, although it doesn’t feel like it. But officially it is, this weekend. So I thought I’d walk you down memory lane with the genius eye of Aussie snapper legend Rennie Ellis. When I think of growing up in Melbourne, trips to the beach and a first glimpse of the blue line on the horizon, getting brain-freezes sucking the colour out of a Samboy, and hoping for a gold ticket, dodging the march flies, copping bindies from a lawn sprint, the smell of reef oil and zinc, sand in your cup, deep and reckless tanning on a plastic li-lo, jumping backwards off shoulders and into the foam and getting water up your nose, board shorts with a money pouch at the front to spend at the shop, waiting in line at the beachside general store, staring up at the pouting chiko roll girl astride a harley, or trying to avoid the revolving rack of paperbacks with the picture of Jaws on the front cover, failing at that, and thinking twice about going back in, even between the flags…I think of the fabulous images of Rennie Ellis. Here are just a few, slices of a time and place for the larrakin flavour of the aussie vernacular - sunburnt, carefree, and democratically irreverent. Hail Maestro.
Enjoy xo HS

HAND SOLO'S 'FLIGHT' SHOW A SELL OUT...

Greetings artlovers and followers. The update reads like this: After the first two weekends ‘Flight’ has virtually sold out, which is a delight and a great relief… Thanks for all your well wishes, they must have worked! It seems like people enjoyed our take on native birds in action. In any case, Coiled Springs has jumped out of the blocks. Come down and check out the show before we close, and she flies away to the homes of the good people who stepped up and nabbed the originals. We’re open this weekend (Saturday/Sunday) from 10am till 4pm, and final weekend next week. We’re hoping to do a run of prints and cards from this series, so if you’d like to purchase any of these, in the lead up to Chrissie, I’ll keep you posted here. Promise.

It’s gone a bit batshit crazee down here at CSS today. Most pics sold on day one. Then these fillies rocked up, right at the end, looking for trouble. Keef moved in to quell the riot. Thanks to all of you that got behind us and broke out the money c…

It’s gone a bit batshit crazee down here at CSS today. Most pics sold on day one. Then these fillies rocked up, right at the end, looking for trouble. Keef moved in to quell the riot. Thanks to all of you that got behind us and broke out the money clip. xo HandSolo

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Recollections: The Old Studio

Here I am back in the old studio in fabulous Flemington. I loved this place and had some grand times there. The studio was situated above an internet cafe on the main road. It was a long narrow open space, with plenty of natural light - perfect for painting. The best part was its flat tin roof which we could access via an old ladder and squeeze through a high window in the foyer It gave us wonderful 360 views of the whole cityscape. One summer we hauled a load of plywood, on ropes, up the full height of the building to make a roofgarden, with pot plants and deckchairs. We’d sit up there in canvas deckchairs, and sunbaked our cares, drinking sea breezes with the radio on…

xo
HandSolo

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Recollections: 'La Nouvelle Sensation'

The guy behind me, on the wall, is Mustapha. Some people thought he was Theo from ‘The Cosby Show’, but he wasn’t…I was wandering around the front of the Tate Modern in London, a few years earlier, when I noticed this guy sitting at a portable card table he’d set up near one of the entrances. His table was covered in hundreds of postcards of all the same image - 9x5 photo portrait of himself. I recall picking up the card and turning it over. It read simply in the top left corner “Mustapha…La Nouvelle Sensation” ‘But what do you do Mustapha?’ I enquired. ‘I mean, are you an actor, or performance artist…?’ He shrugged, and simply sat and smiled the same wide grin. I must have bought a stack of these cards, as I remember us laughing and hugging it out. So, that’s how he ended up on the kitchen wall at the studio, blown up to XXXL. A massive smiling buddha, trying to teach me something simple, I had yet to comprehend.
I must have that postcard somewhere…

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Recollections: Dunny Art

Here’s yours truly, sitting on the throne of the WC, after papering the walls with Eddie Van Halens. I wanted to make something for the visitors - Eddie’s unbridled energy always did the trick.
Enjoy.
xo
HandSolo

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