In my last barcelona summer 2008 many stories happend, changes came, decisions fell and rised till i left the place i called home for 2 1/2 years in january 2009. what is left behind is this fanzine i made just before my departure...have a look and read here...
I get home from work, sit on my balcony and listen to this creepy 80‘s-song "i work hard for my money...i work hard for my money...lala...". The builder two floors down is singing some cuban verse in tune with the radio while the thumping noise of a sledgehammer drowns out the weird assortment of sounds. Yes, i also work hard for my money and feel envious of the person downstairs who just has to bring walls down and not have to worry about a short cash-up from the till, like i do. FUCKMONEY "lalala... i work hard for my money..." With a bad feeling in my stomach and offensive 80‘s sounds in my ear, i leave my flat because i don‘t want to be there but neither am i sure where else to go. In this situation i always escape to macba, where all the lost people of barcelona flee to. I´m arriving here amongst good company and even though i have bought 2 beers on the way to share with someone, i dont have the balls to ask if he wants to help me drink it. I start alone, finishing the first beer before opening the second with a group of punks on my left side and something to smoke between my fingers... I end up in deep conversation with one of them about the FUCKMONEY and how nice it would be without it...The punks parting words to me before i begin my familiar path home are: "We all have to love each other more. This world could be so beautiful... and that my dear is coming from a 45 year old punk!" I am not able to reply anymore, nor say anything against this, so i stumble home.
That happens when you studied something you dont want to be. Some get lost and i start a silkscreen- course instead of flash, draw more than i sleep and copie it 50 times...My first page in fanzine made for you and no one in special. First page makes first silk screen on your t-shirt or the one of your neighbour who likes it or not. Tell my stories and also yours, draw it anytime, anywhere...in here and on your chest, leg or back.
I know you think i dont have good manners when i ask for a favour, but sometimes i can be soooooooooo courteous, dont you agree?
MONSTERTALK
Eleven o clock, every saturday in june, in the studio of my silk screen- course. Outside raval there is noise like always and inside i hang on each word of carlos, which i will have to remember when i´ll try to tinker my own flying t-shirt...Every saturday i said, we are listening to him and also on each of these saturdays exactly at midday someone loudly calls for carlos on the street. I turn to my silk screen-teacher but he but he never shows any sign that he might be the one they are looking for in the street, nor he seems to notice the calling. The important part of how to put on the emulsion is losing my attention and on the third saturday i start to wonder about the hidden identities of the every-saturday-lost-carlos. Wild speculations pop into my head: A. It could be the three- leged dog which is always playing hopscotch when it crosses my way and may be on saturdays he finds out that he is missing the fourth leg. So he leaves his master to look for his lost leg in calle felandina. Or rather...B. Carlos might be the second personality of the schizophrenic homeless at macba and on saturdays at lunchtime he breaks away to look for nice food in the garbage for himself and his poor first being. Obviously the homeless feels left alone and goes to look for his second lost soul. While thinking about the mystery my eyes start to fix on the paper lying on the desk to protect its surface when doing silk screen. It´s full of stains of black ink. I take a black pen and start to draw some lines. A smiling girl appears on the paper with a flying t-shirt in her hand...
this doesnt need more explinations, does it?!
sing song sang... tom vek- nothing but green light
