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

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

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

Zoë Croggon

Zoë Croggon’s Footscray home feels like it belongs to a real grown up. When I enter I am a shy six-year-old again, trailing close behind my mother’s ankles, on a visit to an adult family friend’s house. I remember knowing, without being told, that no matter how bored I was, when we entered these child

Bernadette O’Sullivan

Through Bernadette O’Sullivan’s studio windows the city looks cold. The thin white panes carve buildings into square fragments of grey and muted beige. They look out of focus, like a painted backdrop, distorted by the intense mist. The windows radiate an uncomfortable white light that illuminates the contents of the room.
 In the space everything