Fat or Fiction by designer Anna Brooks, Christina Winkless and David Paul Rosser looks so good I think it might start us eating more cake not less! Clean, crisp and beautifully composed this is a project to prove infographics dont have to be tied to vector illustration.
If you buy anything this month this is what you need. A lovely new quarterly newspaper by the brilliant Rob Ryan. Only £2! S.P.Q.R. stands for Senate and People of Ryantown by the way. [Photography: It’s Nice That].
Ricardo Cases’ third photo book is all about pigeon racing in the Spanish regions of Valencia and Murcia, a game consisting of releasing one female pigeon and dozens of male pigeons that chase her trying to get her attention. The winner is the one that spends the most time close to her. Who judges this!? Buy the book here.
Report from the frontline of bereavement by Mrs Rubbish
When someone you love with all your soul is dying, life takes on a heightened reality. Even more so when they are gone. Significant things become more significant, insignificant become more insignificant.
The feeling of grief cuts through the bullshit of life. It helps you to see things clearly and with truth.
John Dyson, my beloved dad, died on May 6th, 2012. He was only 69. He didn’t want any fuss. No tears, no soppy stuff, certainly no sympathy. His death was, in the end, the most serene it could have been.
Now that he is gone, the grief has taken hold. And it’s got me thinking. As a culture in the most part removed from death, we are all terrified of grief. It is considered a negative due to all the pain it can bring. But now that it has become the primary emotional state I find myself in the midst of, I can tell you that within it there is an extraordinary beauty and truth. The more you love, the more you feel the loss of that love when it is gone. The process is unfathomable until it happens to you. It’s not until you experience the physical reality of grief, a swirling, whirling black hole bruising the very centre of your being, that you can truly understand what heartache feels like.
And while it really, sodding well hurts, I wouldn’t want to not be experiencing it, for that would mean that I hadn’t loved. And life without love is pretty pointless, don’t you think? So that’s why I’ve been saying Good Grief a lot to myself, to remind my soul that it’s a positive thing. To feel a loss so great…okay…enough of that.
In lieu of compiling a grief barometer – I’m surprised Grazia hasn’t done this yet – here’s a few notes on some of the stuff that stands out for me in the awfulness of it all. Some good, some bad. I hope it helps. The comfort from my friends who have been through this has been extraordinary. They just know. And you don’t have to say anything. So here’s my Good Grief barometer:
BAD [but good]:
Being complimented due to unintended weightloss, a byproduct of worry/adrenalin/sadness/emptiness. “Wow you’re looking so great.” “Um, not sure about that. Maybe it’s because my dad’s dying.”
Inappropriate hysterical laughter at extremely inappropriate moments #1: Witnessing my mother rush in a blind panic to the door of dad’s room in the hospice after hearing the most dreadful , intestinal coughing, and doing a jig and air punch with my brother on discovering it wasn’t him dying after all. It was the bloke in the next room along.
As above, #2: A portly woman with a mullet and a print smock and a patronising smirk barges into dad’s hospice room with a mask of thoughtfulness concealing total disregard and insensitivity. “Who’s that lady?” I ask the nurse walking past. “Oh, she’s the resident art therapist.” Mum rushes in. Dad can’t lift a finger, let alone paint a picture of his disease to stick on a wall. He’s dying, for christ’s sake. Moments later, the fat therapist walks sheepishly out of his room. “It’s okay,” says mum, following her out. “Dad told her to fuck off.”
Becoming dyspraxic. Towards the end, when I knew there was only a matter of days, possibly hours, I would go to the hospice, trying to be as thoughtful and quiet as possible, only to bash into his hospital bed with my chair, or tip over an entire bottle of lemon barley water in passing him a drink to sip on. He would roll his eyes… life goes on… and we are clumsy.
Throwing fashion rags across hospice rooms in a fury and a rage: “Mexicana is not a real WORD,” [Hurls Grazia across room with satisfaction]. “How to wear peplums? I DON’T CARE.” furious shove of Vogue onto floor followed by satisfying stamp on said fashion bible*
AND THE GOOD [helpful]:
Electric blankets – the warmth of a valium without the need to swallow a bitter pill. It feels like a hug for your whole body. Thank you Cathy St Germans for that…
Desert Island Disc archive podcasts. Recommended: Anna del Conte, Fay Weldon, Barry Humphries, David Walliams, John Peel, Jan Penkowski… the soothing title music on a loop with eyes wide open make the not sleeping as soporific and settling as possible, without the actual dreams of sleep.
Jarvis Cocker’s Wireless Nights podcasts… again… an extremely soothing way to lie in the dark, alone with your thoughts…
Sobbing while cooking, showering, running. You can’t run away from the sadness but somehow it helps if you cry and cry and cry. Not to be recommended in client meetings, however.
The outpouring of love and memories from friends, old and new. This is incredible. A bittersweet tonic.
Poems read to you by friends and recorded as voice memos. Anything by Philip Larkin.
Here’s one I have been listening to a lot:
There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.
Silken it seems at a distance, yet
When it is drawn up over the knees and breast
It brings no comfort.
Where has the tree gone, that locked
Earth to the sky? What is under my hands,
That I cannot feel?
What loads my hands down?
THE END
RUBBISH is loving this new Tumblr called Bookshelf Porn. One day we hope to have a room just like these ones in our ori-ffice.
London
(as seen on the cover of BOAT Magazine issue 3)
New York
Milan
Beautiful graphics by Ewan David Eason.
Bellisimo design from…a football team.
The Brixton Pound is money that sticks to Brixton encouraging locals to support their local businesses. The three year anniversary of the Brixton Pound is tomorrow at Kaff Bar, 64 Atlantic Road. The time: from 6pm till late. Get along to support this great campaign!
The master of London burgers, Burgerac, has finally released the much anticipated BurgerApp. No longer will you miss that meaty fix. Buy it here.
Who says that cooking and beautiful graphic design don’t sit on the same plate? MMmmmm appetising! Buy it here. [Source and work by: Studio Astrid Stavro]
Yesterday PENCIL took a trip to GFSmith’s ‘Beauty In The Making’ exhibition. It’s great to see such passion and creativity coming from a paper supplier (Though it is GFSmith so we would expect nothing less!).
Despite all the fun we had cutting and sticking, the highlight of the show was the great signage - big hefty stacks of coloured GFSmith paper with the lettering perfectly cut away from the top sheet. Tasty.
Now this is something we didn’t know. Certainly, seeing pictures of machine guns in a typography and paper show came as a bit of a surprise!
Oh yes don’t mind if we doooooo… [source: Creative Review]
With the Mayoral elections just around the corner bring the world of politics to your fingertips with our collectable Boris finger puppet.
Created by RUBBISH with patterns by Jessie Pemberton. This knit wit is guaranteed NOT to pull the wool over your eyes. The perfect gift for the backbencher who has everything!
Featured in the wider series are political figureheads from the Conservatives and Lib Dems and Green Party. We added Boris on the end for good measure.
RUBBISH Political Finger Puppets are available to buy online at www.rubbishmagshop.com and they are priced at £10 each.
Are you cold today? Do you want to look sexy? Answers - Sexy-Sweaters.com
CHECK IT!
The amazing blog Paris vs. New York you may have seen featured in The Observer yesterday. All prints are available to buy here.
