Simon Zoric

When Simon Zoric exhibited a silicone copy of his dick and balls on the floor at West Space someone actually slipped over on it. It sounds like a modern take on a banana skin gag from a 1920s film that might have had tap dancing, or minstrelry in it—but it really happened and he says it wasn’t

Neville Parry

On a dull weekday morning, in a tiny street tucked away in the depths of suburban Brunswick, on the grey cement outside of an ageing weatherboard home, competitive ballroom dancer and coach Neville Parry is unveiling, piece by piece, the ‘best of’ of his intensively curated collection. Each addition seems incongruous to its antecedents; first

Olympia Bukkakis

I was a drama kid in high school. Not to the overbearing extent of the Anne Hathaways of this world, but I was pretty invested, nonetheless. And while I didn’t think about it so much at the time (partly because I went to a girls school) I predominantly performed in male drag. I remember playing lead Viking

Anna Brownfield

It is hard to know what to expect from a visit with Mother Porn. While she may not immediately reach for the title herself (in a humble rejection of its reverent rather than lowbrow tones)  speaking with the documentarian, and award-winning feminist erotic filmmaker Anna Brownfield, she seems an apt matriarch for the growing porn community

Hugh Egan Westland and Blake Barns

On first encountering Hugh Egan Westland and Blake Barns they seem a mismatched pair. While the designers look alike—both have a clear penchant for shrouding their statuesque frames in dark, billowing fabric; both balance these silhouettes by keeping their curly hair sedately short-cut—their dispositions seem markedly different. They are like co-ordinates from collections two seasons

Nicholas Brown and Misha Grace

There is a kind of partnership forged in the teenage years that is unparalleled at any other life-stage. It’s far deeper than the instant child bond; kids are fickle, and mean, and cruel, and all those other nasty, uncomely things. Their friendships melt like so much fairy-floss– in the time it takes to win a

Tsari Paxton

Generational share-houses inspire in me the same kind of banal mysticism as a well-worn hand-me-down. It’s a similarly mundane response to that apolitical Sisterhood to those eponymous travelling pants. Mundane histories of long-forgotten drama and desiccated gossip ingrain themselves into the very walls of these places, along with the greasy blue-tack stains. Tales of erratic

Juliet Rowe

If Juliet Rowe were a car I think she would be a Porsche. Not because the artist bears a resemblance to the car itself. Juliet’s hair is long and dark and cascades in unruly tendrils over her strong shoulders. Her features loom sculpturally from her commanding face. Her dark eyes flash dramatically as she speaks.

Martin King

Martin King is, above all, a lover of pop music. He loves pop in all its weird hybrid sub-forms, and esoteric offshoots. He loves pop for all its inner confusions and contradictions, for its bizarre juxtapositions and conflations. He loves the strange points of cross-over and discord that make up the constantly evolving, multi-headed, weird

Molly Rose Dyson

When we sit down in Molly Dyson’s bedroom-cum-studio, the illustrator and artist is waxing lyrical about her favourite topic- her occasional portrait subject, and constant companion, the dachshund-cross-chihuahua, Chippy. “Her armpits and her bottom lip are my favourite bits about her,” she says, as she nuzzles her freckled nose into the small threadbare patch of