Friday, July 31, 2009


When I first began to toy around with the idea that has now, over a long period of time, become SLEEVES COMMONWEALTH PRESS one of the main concepts behind starting a small press of sorts was to not only put out art and photography books, but also small editions of anything and everything that I liked. To support people I knew who did good things. Things I liked by people I knew were doing it for the right reasons.

So alongside books you can also expect to see CD-R's, records, zines, posters, shirts, lookbooks, and anything else I can collaborate with people on that represents what it is that they're doing (so well) with their time.

Things always take longer than you think. Things get moved around and pushed back, and so now we finally have the first "release" from SLEEVES.

S.C.P I : the SAIL BY NIGHT album.

My friend Michael Murphy wrote and recorded a bunch of amazing songs over the last winter and is in the early stages of writing more (which will hopefully become the first SLEEVES 12"). We decided those songs should have a small, but fitting home. This is that home.

Hand packaged CDR's, which if you'd like one can be sent out for literally nothing. Free shit.

Anyway, above is the original artwork we used for labels, and some photos of the finished thing. Found images, paper, tape, Kinkos and more. Leave a comment, or send an email if you'd like one.

Oh and if any one books good shows, or otherwise knows about that sort of thing, hit Michael up:

P.S Expect the second release from SLEEVES in a matter of days (a week and a half MAX).

When Are We Going To Learn?

"After Gerhard Richter" Girls. By DAVID SCHOERNER.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Don't Be Bad No More.

We're waving them off. To be honest they look a lot like ants. Hundreds of them darting in and out of the buses, clambering over one another, over the backs of seats. Throwing out handkerchiefs. Blowing kisses. Shaking hands. Bowing heads. There are so many of them. And we're here to see them off. To watch them leave the town, their families, and pregnant wives; to take roads we've never driven, across the whole country, to waiting boats filled with even more angry, anxious, hopeful, men. Boats that will sail oceans we've never seen. We're waving them off. We're whistling. We're holding our hands together, and pushing our lips into smiles. Just like our mothers told us we should.


The Falls.

{Adam played his last couple of shows with The Family Band over the last week. We were lucky enough to see the penultimate. For a quick look at where he played the last one CLICK HERE - 7.26.2009. I'm sure they're all as bummed to lose him as we are. He did manage to record 10 songs or so with them before he left though, so hopefully they will see the light of day soon. I really can't recommend this band highly enough. They deserve great things}

Monday, July 27, 2009



Long Story...

Friday, July 24, 2009


BLOOD OF THE YOUNG just out out their first PDF zine, entitled GIRLS. A couple of photos I shot of the woman I love were included. Check it out for no other reason than because it is good.


Tuesday, July 21, 2009


{Marcelo Gomes for Vice Magazine. The book we're working on is still being worked on. It should be out before the summer is over. Something special should be out before that. I'll have more on that later next week hopefully...}

Monday, July 20, 2009

Coming Soon.


If only for the jacket.


Friday, July 17, 2009


I wondered whether to say something here or not, but ultimately: I guess if it helps, it helps.

This place is a pretty good example of the kinds of things I like, the kinds of things I'm maybe good at. Or at least try my best to be.

I currently need a job. So if anyone out there has any recommendations or knows someone I should speak to about something they think I might like, hit me up with an email.

Worth a try

Thursday, July 16, 2009


Tuesday, July 14, 2009


He’s not in the best shape of his life. He’s not pulling punches like he used to. The loads he’s carrying are significantly heavier, and he tends to stumble those last couple of steps to bed. He’s a Horlicks man. The last time I came over he made us both a steak supper, and asked if my mother minded me drinking. I told him she didn’t have to know. He seemed pleased. We sat in front of our empty plates for a while before he spoke again.

You’re going to school?

It wasn’t a question. His voice held the strength his muscles no longer could. He was telling me.

I am. I said.

He seemed even more pleased than seeing me finish my can of Carling.

Good. He said after a minute of staring at me. I’ll fetch another beer.

The last few years had been tough. He’d lost a wife, his hearing for the most part, countless remotes down the back of the sofa. He’s more tired than he used to be. He took a nap just before we sat down for dinner. I sat on the wall at the back of the house, watching the sun go down; listening to the wood pigeons. I’ve hated their craws ever since I was a child. I’d stand beside the rock mountain – a makeshift grave for Bowson, my grandparents 4th of countless Cocker Spaniels- talking to a dead dog, making friends with a pet I barely remembered alive, and I’d hear the wood pigeons overhead. They called restlessly to each other as the sun began to fall, and I knew it was only a matter of hours until I’d be back in school. The dread you feel as a child is perhaps the strongest you ever experience: The anxiety of returning back to school. Fear of the ordinary. And it never really leaves you: Sunday evenings are still the very worst of the week.

When he came down from upstairs, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands – his fingers forever dirty with grease, and wood glue, and the red tint of rust- he patted me on the back, a squeeze of the shoulder, and told me he’d fix us up something to eat.

I didn’t watch him in the kitchen, I knew it was better not to see how the meal was prepared, only do my best to enjoy whatever flavour was left after he massacred it on the stove. Burnt flesh, boiled limp vegetables, a glass of Vimto. And now a can of Carling. We set our plates down, and he turned on the small television that hung over the kitchen table – on one of those hinged television stands he had bought surplus amounts of several years before. Everyone in the family had one. In each bedroom an old television perched at a precarious angle on a small white support. The television hadn’t been there in the years previous, when my grandmother was around.

The meat hadn’t been so tough either.

You’ll do well in school. Again this was less encouragement; more threat. Your mother will be chuffed.

What about Dad? I asked.

Oh him. He’ll be too. Although I expect he’ll be happier when you’re done.

Why’s that then?

Well. And he took another sip of warming beer. Once you’re done you won’t need his money anymore. Or you will, but he won’t feel so obliged to give it to you.

I nodded in a halfhearted agreement.

Should have learnt a trade… I heard him mutter beneath his breath. I knew he was proud though; he wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.

Earlier in the day, as he slept the last of the afternoon warmth away, I’d been walking at the bottom of the garden; down past the greenhouse, where the apple trees lurched over the side of the stone wall he’d mortared himself in kinder years. A pencil most likely behind his ear. Plans for the new shed he was going to build on the opposite side of the path to the greenhouse strewn across the kitchen table. My grandmother, fed up from moving them each mealtime, resigning to eat her dinner in the living room, from a tray she hated using for anything other than carrying cups of tea to and from the kitchen. Besides the abandoned compost heap, and the stacks of empty planters and rusting spades I saw his slippers. Incased in mud. Stuck to the ground. The wet earth he had left them in, presumably to wonder back to the house barefoot, had hardened in the subsequent week’s sun, and held them steadfast – like concrete- in the exact same spot he had left them. A snail curling itself around a sodden heel. I felt like crying as I stood over them, but it took my years to realize why.

He placed his can down and raised his head to the ceiling.

We’ll be alright boy. You and me. The pair of us will be just fine.

This time it sounded more like a question; the first time I had ever really wanted him to reassure me, to hold his posture and voice unwavering, but there was a question mark there at the end of the sentence.

Sure we will. How could we not be? I finished the last swig of the second can. It was the best that either of us could do given the circumstances. I think I’ll head in early. He said, taking his plate in hand, picking mine up on route to the kitchen. He’d been up only an hour, an hour and a half maybe.

That’s okay. I said. I’ve got a shit-ton of work to do for tomorrow anyway.

He spun on his heel, startled by my language, ready to reprimand me. But stopping suddenly he smiled, an acknowledgement of my ageing, and shook his head in quiet laughter as he padded off towards the worlds oldest Zanussi dishwasher.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Silk Flowers

{Record out next week. Record release show on Saturday}

Friday, July 10, 2009



{Sorry for the slowpokes posting. It's been a fun but hectic week. Anyway last night there was both a Gonz show and a Hamburger Eyes issue launch. We rolled deep to both. Some photos of purchases from both coming soon. Like really soon. Like maybe later on today. Or a week from now}

Monday, July 6, 2009


Holiday weekend. Chill. I'm working on it.

Friday, July 3, 2009