Yvette Robinson & Jennifer Skip talk us through their illustrations for issue 10

 

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J&Y are a design collective based in Leeds who use type and image to make creative responses to social and political issues. They have an ongoing exploration surrounding feminism whilst coinciding with The Festival of the Body events which are have taken place in Leeds over March 2016. Outcomes combine personal responses and that of others with intention to answer the questions they ask themselves. 

The photographs included in this Hand Job issue were taken for the promotion of all of the events during Festival of the Body, which displayed the back of people’s heads. The photo shoot came off an idea we had about people looking forward to an event to then discovering that most people were more up to having their photo taken when they find out that we only require the back of their heads. It would be believed that this says a lot about how people perceive their body image and what affect the media has had on them when we seize up in front of the camera but are more relaxed when our identity is hidden. During the length of the Festival, there was an exhibition being held in Room 700, located within Leeds Central Library where the photographs were displayed as a body of work. 

 The photographs have been edited and appropriated for the purpose of this issue, which allows us to interpret them differently. The initial intention was to be a gender neutral and celebratory response however now we can negotiate a link to the ‘Lady Luck’ poem by the brilliant Dean Cavanagh. Giant poker chips, shiny wigs and party blowers now have a much more sinister tone of voice and illustrate the seedy words which we have the pleasure to be alongside.

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LADY LUCK by Dean Cavanagh


She’s placing wagers on Ouija boards again
speculating on the outcome of man made disasters
body count and collective trauma
laying odds on the resultant number of born again atheists
stalking the hostels of worship to witness the episcopal egress

Throwing runes instead of dice she dispatches all deadbeats
with a cuspate flick of the wrist
Sucks the energy of self pity from them as they mourn losses and
count blessings, blessings she considers queer
But in her Delphic elan she gives them another chance
to throw number scarred bones
and taste evanescent “wins”

She spreads herself across card table and her High
Priestess transcends their Ace of Spades hands down
They shoot her suspicious peeps and guts intuit
liquid shit hitting fans
hidden hand after hand after hidden hand until only The Hanged Man
remains on the green baize
“You have to be upside down to see him” She grins

In Moon shadow she snakes to schools above and below inconvenience stores
scooping up pittance is all the same to her, it’s the winning that counts
it’s the acquiescence in their eyes
it’s the tenebrific atmosphere that reassures her God isn’t on the
side of the gambler

On trading floors she binds spells with arithmetic
bedazzles with equations
debauches with the promise of more, more, more
And The Go For Brokers genuflect and masturbate in veneration at her unveiling
discerning that from Atom and Eve onwards the decks have been stacked

In their Wank Banks are phantasmagorias of that first seedy temptation
and these Jesters hover auguries over the abyss and dip their wicks in
Overlooking the fact she’s still the unrepentant whore
corporate culture sincerely enshrouds consensus amnesia
as The Tossers spunk fortunes on life and death derivatives

And in their post-orgy downturn they spill heathen prayers from frothing orifices
But Lady Luck cackles at their fruitless invocations
and grins from shadows and balance sheets
and slowly parts her lips for the serpent to glissade inside
To unequivocally penetrate
and prove to both the sacred and profane
that she really does not give a fuck 

 

 

 

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