girls girls girls: issue 4

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SADMAG

YAYOI THEATRE’S NEW HISTORIC

marina Bychkova’sDoll face

ROLLERGIRLS LEAD THE WAY

SadMagIssue4.indd 1 7/19/10 8:17:28 PM

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culturefashion

music art

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SADMAG


6 Street SoundsTraditional Folk Songs Find Their Interpersonal Place on the Pavement with Busker Patrick Spencer

10 A Reinvention UnmaskedThe Yayoi Theatre Movement Society Synthesizes Traditional Japanese Dance Forms

14 Crafting IndividualsEnchanted Doll’s Meticulously Handcrafted Dolls Are Not Just Pretty and Not Just For Play

18 Hot WheelsTerminal City Rollergirls Build a Community of Camaraderie, Bruise by Bruise

24 This Wrestling Life Following Independent Wrestler Scotty Mac

28 Person, Place & ThingSpandyAndy, Junk Fence & Empty Billboards

WE ARE SO ON THIS MONTH. Sure, this issue is about six weeks late. But guys, we have been hustling. This is the fourth issue of Sad Mag, which closes our first year of

publishing, and we’re busy rolling out the red carpet for our second year.

We’re launching a new website, embarking on a new blog project with Granville Magazine, and planning a whole lot of great events. We’ll be real: we’re pretty proud of ourselves. However, none of this would be possible if it weren’t for friends and contributors—the tough, creative and entrepreneurial people that they are—who inspire us to keep moving.

Let’s hear it for tough bitches, like the ones featured in this issue, who make things happen for themselves. They’re leading theatre companies, selling their art worldwide, inspiring fans, mentoring newcomers and taking big risks. Tough bitches, you are the poster girls on the teenage bed-room walls of our hearts.

Photographer Sarah Race on location in Strathcona with cover girl Suzy Shameless. Photo: Brandon Gaukel.

GIRLSGIRLSGIRLS

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Publisher Sad Magazine Publishing Society

Editor in Chief Deanne Beattie

Creative Director Brandon Gaukel

Managing Editor Justin Mah

Lead Designer Andrew Schulz

Production Manager Adam Cristobal

Copy Editor Ryan Longoz

Web Editors Rebecca Slaven & Catherine Winters

Communications Manager Leah Vlemmiks

Contributing Writers Darryl Cressman, Ana Maria Kresina, Megan Lau, Jeff Lawrence, Justin Mah,

Michelle Reid, Lauren Schachter, Rebecca Slaven

Contributing ArtistsKristina Fiedrich, Brandon Gaukel, Shane Oosterhoff, Sarah Race, Matthew Savage, Andrew Schulz, Kreag Seime, Johnathan

Taggart, Ryan Walter Wagner

Sad Magazine Publishing Society Board of Directors

Deanne Beattie, Hubert Chan, Iris Dias, Brandon Gaukel, Robert Lutener,

Matthew McGale

Sad Mag would like to thank:Patrick Beechinor, Chandra Chinatambi,

Darryl Cressman, The Cobalt, Kelly Cutrone, Dave Deveau, East Van Graphics,

Lindsey Fraser, Lon Garrick, Hilary Henegar, Megan Lau, Jeff Lawrence, Kreag

Seime, Chris Seymour, Zee Zee Theatre, Daniel Zomparelli, 1181 Tight Lounge

Sad Mag is published four times a year by the

Sad Magazine Publishing Society, 732 E. 11th Avenue, Vancouver B.C., V5T 2E5.

Email: [email protected].

Contents Copyright © 2010, Sad Magazine. All rights reserved.

ISSN 1923-3566

www.sadmag.cawww.facebook.com/sadmag

www.twitter.com/sadmag

FEATURED CONTRIBUTORSRebecca Slaven | Writer Crafting IndividualsRebecca Slaven was born in Yellowknife but enjoys civilization and so she now calls Vancouver home. Currently she is finishing up her Masters in Library Studies at UBC, and cataloguing and digitizing the world’s largest collection of croquet images. In her spare time, she likes biking, snacking, and playing her accordion.

“As a friend of Marina’s, I thought I ran the risk of lavishing too much praise on her work but I found the opposite was true. The sass that naturally arises from camaraderie can appear harsh on paper, so I had to find ways to inject the warmth of personal exchange into print.”

Sarah Race| PhotographerHot WheelsSarah Race is originally from small-town Oregon and has been based in Vancouver since 2004. She shoots quirky portraits on a freelance basis for a variety of American and Canadian publications. Sarah is also the Artist in Residence with the Vancouver Queer Film Festival this summer. View more of her work at www.sarahrace.com

“From what I noticed, eighty percent of roller derby photography is done in a burlesque light. I wanted to step away from that, and photograph them in a bit more rough and tumble scenario. These girls can kick my ass, but I am a little disappointed that they didn’t.”

Catherine Winters| Web EditorSadMag.caCatherine Winters is a Vancouver-based web de-veloper and designer. In past lives, Catherine has been an art student, technical writer, professional blogger, and virtual worlds marketer. Today, she finds herself playing entrepreneur, as she builds websites for artists and businesses. A self-described information graphics geek, Catherine is more than happy to talk at great length about typography, urban planning, and icon design. Catherine developed and implemented the new sadmag.ca, which launched this month.

“With sadmag.ca, I wanted to duplicate the print edi-tion’s look and feel as closely as possible, to establish a clear relationship between the two media. Typography and layout are still a bit of a mess on the web, so it was a particular challenge to get the features we take for granted in print to carry over.”

Photo: Lisa Hartley

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TWO YEARS AGO, I GUESS, I ASKED FOR an amplifier because I was starting to play more live music. So for Christmas, my family bought me a mic and a stand and

the amplifier they got, they didn’t know it, but it was a busking amp—it had rechargeable batteries. And so, at first, I was like, ‘That’s not what I really wanted.’

It was February 2009, the first time I tried busking: I set up the first few times last winter on Granville Street. It was cold—I had to wear little gloves— but I was the only busker down on the street and so the money was really good, which was a weird and strange thing at first: it was like, ‘What, I don’t need a job to get by?’

I like to play music that might introduce someone to songs they haven’t heard, and to give somebody an

experience that they wouldn’t necessarily have thought they would come across. I get people coming up to me and saying: ‘I really enjoyed that, you made my day—I

was sitting in my office building and I could hear your music and it made my day.’ That’s pretty rewarding, and it makes you want to do it more when that happens, even if you don’t make a lot of

money—that can be a better day, if someone comes and says that to you.

For me, to ever really enjoy playing a cover song, I have to fully understand what is being said. It’s not necessarily the words that matter; it’s what’s behind the words. A good song, I think, bypasses the intellect—it hits you somewhere else, your body notices it before your mind does.

STREETsounds

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Traditional Folk Songs Find Their Interpersonal Place on the Pavement with Busker Patrick Spencer

By Justin MahPhotography by Jonathan Taggart


I really like old traditional folk songs: there’s a song called “Red River Valley”—it’s an old bedtime story-type song that’s been around for more than a hundred years. I notice when I play that song—and I play it in my own way, kind of upbeat—it doesn’t sound like an old folk song, but at the same time, people over fifty years old, for instance, will recognize it and will stop and listen and will say, ‘Hey, I really liked hearing that, I haven’t heard that song since my grandmother used to sing it to me as a child.’

I think, with a well-written song, like any good piece of art, what the artist has done is found a way to describe a certain situation as truthfully and as simply as possible. I try and do this with my songwriting; I want to explain something in a way that’s raw and truthful and vulnerable, because if you’re doing a good job at that, people recognize those things in your art, I think, subliminally.

It’s like when you hear a song on the radio that has a line in it where you’re like, ‘Oh, I know exactly how that artist is feeling.’ I think we feel that way because we all basically feel the same emotions, and if you can write a song that touches on those basic emotions but in a very personalized and or-ganic way, then people will like it ’cause they can relate to it. It’s familiar, and I think we like the familiar.

I think Vancouver is at a point where street entertainment like busking could really go somewhere. The Olympics were great—it got a lot of people down on the street and people were congregating in community spaces. And to have artists down on the street providing some entertainment is so cool: it gets people out of their own little worlds and it gets them unplugging their fucking iPods—and I’m just as guilty as anyone else—but it’s nice, it just gets you checking in with your surroundings, and we’re losing that.

Performing on the street is such a raw form of music—there’s no production involved other than my little busking amp and microphone; I don’t even have any reverb on mine. It’s just you playing music on the street for people, and I like that people can take it or leave it; it’s a vulnerable situation—it was scary at first, and it still is. The first song is always a little nerve-wracking, and then you settle in.

PERFORMING ON THE STREET IS

SUCH A RAW FORM OF MUSIC.

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YAYOI HIRANO AND I SIT AT A CARD TABLE in an empty room, while outside there are the familiar sounds of Granville Island on a weekend after-

noon: ducks, children, cars faintly thundering across the bridge overhead. Yayoi is wearing black sunglasses and low black heels, dressed in layers of black fabric. She is composed and elegant, her youthful appearance belying the longevity of her career as a dancer, mask-maker, mime artist, storyteller and founder of the Yayoi Theatre Movement Society, which is now two decades old.

The company produces works that combine dance and theatre techniques from traditional Japanese and modern

styles. Using masks, body movement and music, Yayoi tells stories that are simultaneously Japanese and inter-national, timeless and contemporary, feminine and powerful. She has trav-elled with a multitude of performance troupes to thirteen countries, and

collaborated with performers and directors from China, Bulgaria, Holland and Canada.

Yayoi was born in Tokyo, and was based there until she moved to Vancouver in 2002. Tokyo, compared to

A REINVENTION UNMASKED

The Yayoi Theatre Movement Society Synthesizes Traditional Japanese Dance Forms

By Michelle ReidIllustration by Kristina Fiedrich

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Vancouver, is “different,” she says thoughtfully, “It’s super busy. I mean, theatre or dance or performance or whatever...thousands of things are always going on—almost like a fes-tival every day.” In this sense, Vancouver may be regarded as a quiet city. “My favourite German theatre company, they don’t come here. They only come to Montreal. So that kind of thing I miss, sometimes.”

She studied at the Toho Gakuen College of Performing Arts—the only performance college in Japan at the time—and graduated in 1975. After graduation, she began performing mime with friends and later studied it in Germany. This is remarkable given the scarcity of female performers in the overwhelmingly male-dominated art of mime. Yayoi explains that mime demands strong, abrupt movements, a style con-trary to the fluid, floating way women learn to move.

She doesn’t seem phased by this, but rather considers her feminine style to be an advantage. “I was thinking, you know, if I tried to be the same as a man, I’m going to fail. So what I can do is, just do what only a female can do. Then no man can do it.” Her awareness of her body and her ability to clearly convey the full range of human emotions using sweeping, seamless motions is, as she suggests, completely unique. While discussing her perspectives on style and tradition, it is apparent that she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about gender barriers. She creates art and, if necessary, new styles to do so.

Yayoi incorporates elements of both kabuki and Noh traditional Japanese theatre into her performances, as well as Nihon Buyo—traditional Japanese stage dancing—and ele-ments borrowed from her study “here and there” of modern dance styles. Kabuki, something my addled, artless mind categorizes as Japanese cabaret, was created by a priestess called Okuni of Izumo at the turn of the 17th century. This priestess began by performing in dry riverbeds, gathering and training a troupe of wild female performers. Kabuki quickly took over the red-light district, blowing up popular culture in Japan. In 1629, the government banned onna-kabuki, female kabuki, on the grounds that it was too erotic, with women receiving an awful lot of “undue attention”

from male admirers; they likely also took issue with the fact that many of the original performers were prostitutes. Adult men took over all the roles and dominated the form until the 20th century as it evolved into a dramatic art.

In contrast to the flash and glamour of kabuki, which is characterized by elaborate makeup and costumes, Noh theatre is steeped in tradition and Japanese history; it is by comparison, restrained and powerful. Masked performers perform physically demanding pieces accompanied by a chanting chorus, which can sometimes run the length of an entire day.

The heavy masks that Yayoi carves for her performances are inspired by Noh theatre. She has been carving since 1995: acting as an interpreter, Yayoi accompanied a Canadian friend visiting in Japan who wanted to learn clay work from a master mask-maker, renowned carver Fujio Fujimori, and ended up carving herself. “I didn’t expect to carve, but he said, ‘I can help you. If you want to do the mask, then start it.’” A Noh-style mask is chiselled from a block of wood as thick as a phone book, and then painted. They cover the whole face, with only tiny holes for eyes. Human faces take three months to complete; demons and monsters, rich with detail and colour, take half a year. “I don’t work on them every single day,” Yayoi says modestly.

Each is a meticulous work of art, designed to show a dif-ferent expression depending on how the actor tilts the mask to the audience, although performers rely more on body movement to convey emotions. Wearing masks through which you can barely see is not without its hazards. “You can’t see your feet. Sometimes people fall off from the stage. Really! I did twice,” she confesses. “It’s not just me. Really famous Noh actors, even, fall down.”

Despite the clumsy results such a combination of theatre might imply, the emphasis of Yayoi’s work is always on grace-ful movement: words take a backseat to music, which frames the stories that dancers tell using their bodies, reflecting her origins in the often-wordless performances of mime, Noh and kabuki. Yayoi’s productions reflect her personal history as a Japanese woman, world traveler and Canadian resident. “When I was living in Japan,” she says, “I always felt like that—the way I think, or the way I act, or the way I like to eat, or something like that—was very Western.” She laughs, and continues, “But living here, it’s getting more Japanese.”

Identity and history are strong themes in Yayoi’s work, which has explored Japanese myths and legends. Shinju, her 2008 work adapted from an 18th-century kabuki tragedy, blended Japanese and Western styles together to depict the universally recognized story of doomed, star-crossed lovers. “I was living here for seven, eight years,” says Yayoi, “and I still felt like a guest performer. And as a guest performer you want to show your own culture.”

Yayoi’s work delves not only into native Japanese cul-ture but also the lives of Japanese-Canadians. Her newest piece, Identity, explores the life and work of Roy Kiyooka, a Japanese-Canadian artist whom Yayoi met in 1992 while

MIME DEMANDS STRONG, ABRUPT

MOVEMENTS, A STYLE CONTRARY TO THE

FLUID, FLOATING WAY WOMEN LEARN

TO MOVE.

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performing at the Fringe Festival. For the fi rst time, Yayoi connected with the Canadian–born Japanese community.

Kiyooka was one of the many Japanese-Canadians who lived through the discrimination of World War II, and Yayoi has decidedly channelled some of those collective experi-ences into her art. Identity not only serves as a tribute to Kiyooka, who died in 1994, but it also provides a focal point for the community of Japanese-Canadians. Identity is based on Japanese mask theatre and butoh, a recent progression in Japanese dance that evolved after World War II in Japan and has a presence here through the Vancouver–based dance company Kokoro.

Presently, Yayoi is working with the Vancouver Opera as a movement coach for the upcoming production of Madama Butterfl y, which she describes effusively as “a lot of fun!”

What is it about performance that stirs people? As people bring their perspectives and imaginations together, they build something transcendent. At their best, dance and theatre and music are transparent displays of experience and emotion that unite audience and performer in an under-standing of pain and pleasure, sadness and ecstasy. Yayoi’s work resonates with her audiences because it is authentically drawn from her relationships and experiences; it is unique because she is unique.

All the same, people are creatures of cultivated tastes. “I like evocative performances,” Yayoi says, “I don’t like to see it if it’s just for fun.” Does Yayoi think that Vancouver audiences are receptive to her performances, the alchemy of different cultures melting together onstage? She shrugs. “I’m still gauging what this Vancouver audience wants to see. But you know, I have to decide what I want to do and not worry about what people want to see,” she says, declar-ing: “It’s art!”

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CRAFTINGINDIVIDUALS

MARINA BYCHKOVA ENCOURAGES ME to play with her dolls. If Barbie and Michel-angelo’s David mated in a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale, the result would be Bychkova’s

Enchanted Doll line. The dolls are fully functional and created from durable materials so that they can be safely played with, but I still hesitate at the notion of touching one. Bychkova spends around 350 hours creating and hand painting each doll, and upwards of 100 hours on every embroidered and beaded costume with precious metal and gemstone accessories. “I can justify my whole life as making something that is just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” she says. “It has to have a presence that will be absolutely unforgettable.”

Enchanted Dolls have been purchased by the likes of Mark Parker, president and CEO of Nike, and Fabrizio Vitti, lead shoe designer for Louis Vuitton; they have been featured in countless magazines and are becoming reoccur-

ring fi xtures in galleries throughout Europe. In Vancouver, Bychkova leads a quiet life with her fi ancé, who is also the photographer and web designer for Enchanted Doll. Her product is a refl ection of herself—practical, fantastical, confl icted, and one of a kind.

Bychkova pulls out a box containing hundreds of paper dolls—many based on characters from popular culture

such as Scully from the X-Files, Prince Charming, and Sailor Moon. “While other girls played with dolls, I made dolls. I remember when [Disney’s] Aladdin came out; I made a Princess Jasmine doll and showed it to my

classmates and all of the girls wanted one. I made like twenty of those dolls for sale and then came to school and said, ‘You want a doll? A hundred rubles please!’” she laughs while feigning to sell them from an imaginary trench coat.

“I think I started making dolls when I learned how to hold scissors,” she says. Much of her initial motivation ori-ginated from dissatisfaction with the toys she had. “When I

Enchanted Doll’s Meticulously Handcrafted Dolls Are Not Just Pretty and Not Just For Play

By Rebecca SlavenPhotography by Tina Krueger-Kulic

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was eight, I saw Barbie for the first time on a television com-mercial and it was like a religious experience. I had never seen a doll like that before; I had old Soviet toys that were ugly.” Bychkova then embarked to create something even better. Fascinated by both form and function, Bychkova made her first jointed doll that same year using bolts plun-dered from her grandfather’s tool cabinet. The doll flopped under the burden of the heavy joints on its candy-box body, but it reflects the detail and craftsmanship that Bychkova has always striven for.

Like a mad scientist, Bychkova ran wild with her experi-ments. “The tone was set really early on when I would har-vest parts from different places like magazines and books. Then I got older and started taking household objects apart and made them into Frankenstein dolls. My mom would find them and say, ‘Hey, this is why the radio doesn’t work!’ I just couldn’t stop making dolls. It’s like an inescapable path that I had to follow and, seeing how I was so aware of it and so obsessed with it, it almost seems natural that I would end up doing it,” she says.

While her artistic ability was apparent to everyone, Bychkova was fed the stereotypical notion that artists are poor and so she never anticipated that she would be making dolls as a profession. She responded to the many people who

proclaimed she would be an artist by saying, “No, I’m going to be painting on Saturdays and Sundays while Monday to Friday I’m going to work.” This mindset survived until her family left Russia for Vancouver, when she was fourteen. By the time she graduated from high school, she felt more proficient at expressing herself through art than the English language. She then applied to Emily Carr simply because she felt she had no other option. “On the day that I was submitting my application form to Emily Carr there was an earthquake and after it ended I had to go across the bridge. I saw all these really creepy swirls in False Creek. I guess sediment from the bottom had risen and all of the water was brown. It was like an omen,” she says.

Bychkova describes her time at Emily Carr as miserable. Anticipating traditional technique classes, she was bitter at the hours spent studying theory, which detracted from her studio time. Frustrated at the vast separation between her school-work and her creative work, she began to think differently. “In a way, art school really made me who I am, even though I resented it. It forced me to evolve. I think the reason I don’t just make pretty dolls in pink bows and skirts holding little teddy bears is because I was forced to think of dolls as a tool for art that has to communicate something more meaningful than just, ‘I’m a pretty little girl, play with me,’” she says.

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While still in school, her coworkers at her part-time job surprised her with a gift certificate for a porcelain doll studio in Granville Island. Eventually, the studio shut down, forcing her to buy her own kiln. Accrual of materials then grew, such that Bychkova now has a full studio in her apartment and her passion has transitioned from part-time to profes-sion. She has been making porcelain ball-jointed dolls for the last six years and finds inspiration in everything from tea cups to Art Nouveau. “I find things that resonate with my own work because of something I have inside me that drives me to find those things. It’s like The Secret, except that’s bullshit,” she laughs.

She runs off to her bookshelf to show me her favourite artist, Sulamith Wülfing, while expressing admiration for Wülfing’s ability to transcend the mainstream; Bychkova aspires to this ability in her own work. “I channel my own vision of perfection and beauty into dolls; but in some, I try to inflict flaws just to explore the tension of the perfection that we all crave. I like to think my dolls are something more contemporary, something more interactive, something more than just dolls.”

The extraordinary quality of her dolls require that she advertise beyond Vancouver and, thanks to the Internet, she has sparked global interest among fine art collectors, doll aficionados and fashion designers. “Some of my clients have never even had a doll. They buy my work not because it’s

a doll but because of the aesthetic qualities. Then there are the hardcore clients that wants dolls because they like dolls,” she explains. Doll fanatics often buy nude dolls because they are more accessible and suited for dress-up and so, to bet-ter serve these clients, she has started experimenting with making resin dolls, which are less costly. Art collectors prefer Bychkova’s costumed dolls, purchasing with the intention of displaying the doll like a finished painting or sculpture.

It takes me by surprise when Bychkova discusses her struggle with consumerism. Her dolls are handcrafted with such love and fastidiousness that it seems unlikely they would be thought of simply as objects. “I just think we’re so over-saturated right now with things. When you make something and contribute to consumerism the way I do, it has to be incredible. It can’t just be another thing. If you’re going to make something, just go crazy with it!” Another conundrum is maintaining a balance between financial and creative suc-cess. “It kind of sucks that you have to be driven by things other than pure creativity and contend with the realities. I don’t like to say that. Most people won’t understand. Sure, when you have a huge trust fund, you can afford to do that. Some commercialization is inevitable. Ultimately, I do what I want to do, but some of it I want to do less than others.” She smiles, “I have a great life. I get to live out my dreams and make them come true—literally, make them come true. They just appear in the form of dolls.”

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By Ana Maria KresinaPhotography by Sarah Race

Makeup by Kreag Seime

Terminal City Rollergirls Build a Community of Camaraderie, Bruise by Bruise


sport—it’s a lifestyle,” says BarraCouga. “We practice hard and play even harder.” An animator in Vancouver, Barra-Couga spends most of her free time organizing the league’s bouts. She is constantly answering emails and taking phone calls, coordinating everything from the arena’s production design to liquor delivery for its beer garden. On top of this, she is also the co-captain of The Bad Reputations. Barra-Couga says that the diversity of the league is what makes it a great project to be involved in so heavily. “Our league is made up of [women of] all shapes and sizes, and from all walks of life,” she says.

Roller derby is a full-contact sport where the agility and strength of a player is of utmost importance. A bout

SHE SKATES AROUND THE TRACK WAVING

TO HER FANS, WITH A BOUFFANT

ROCKABILLY HAIRSTYLE, HER SHIRT

HIKED UP AND HER BELLY ExPOSED.

before an adoring audience. Even before Drew Barrymore and Ellen Page signed on to portray the sport in Whip It, women across North America were lacing up their roller-skates to play a sport that incorporates athleticism and ag-gression, while celebrating and challenging social standards of beauty, femininity and sexuality, all in one shot. Many skaters admit that the initial allure of the sport was women in fishnets knocking each other off their skates; however, it’s the camaraderie and the spirit of the sport that has enraptured the skaters and their fans. “Playing derby provides you with a great feeling of accomplishment,” says Shameless, “I am so lucky to be inspired by the women I play with, and to inspire other women to take part in this phenomenon.”

Phenomenon is an understatement. At the first bout of this season, the Terminal City Rollergirls sold out Kerrisdale Arena with over 2,200 people in attendance. As skaters were announced over the speaker system, the cheers from the fans shook the arena. To an outsider, it would be hard to believe that the league, with over sixty skaters, is only four years old and run completely by volunteers. What started as a small group of diverse women meeting to discuss the possibility of bringing female roller derby to Vancouver has grown into a formal organization. “Derby is really more than just a

I HELD THE SHARPIE MARKER TIGHTLY between my fingers as I carefully wrote “HERE IS THE BEEF” on the stomach of Suzy Shameless. As the skater honoured with the task of writing the phrase,

I ensured that my writing was legible. It was meant as a joke, but with thousands of fans screaming her name ten minutes later, it was hard to deny that Shameless—as she’s known on the track—was achieving more for feminism in fishnets and lipstick than anyone I know.

In fact, to me, we all were: the full-time mothers, teachers, artists, construction workers, librarians and film producers that have come to comprise the Terminal City Rollergirls League. Despite our wildly diverse backgrounds and varied athletic experiences, the women of roller derby can compete together in short-shorts without an iota of shame, which, it turns out, is still quite a revolutionary thing for a group of women to do.

Suzy Shameless is a member of the Faster Pussycats, one of Terminal City Rollergirls’ three teams, and has been in-volved with the roller derby league since its inception in 2006. She is known in the roller derby world for her aggressive hits, speedy legs, and for her self-confidence both on and off the track. A crowd favourite, it isn’t hard to spot Shameless as she skates around the track waving to her fans, with a bouffant rockabilly hairstyle, her shirt hiked up and her belly exposed.

Shameless is the first to admit with a laugh that she’s a “ball on two sticks,” but she’s never regarded body shape and size as a hindrance to her athletic performance. She explained to me that when she was in Alaska, the captain of an opposing team once apologized to her for underestimat-ing her ability as a skater. Shameless has noticed that this happens a lot for female athletes, but not as much for say, powerful football players who can reach upwards of three-hundred pounds; it’s a double standard that most people can recognize, but don’t know how to rectify.

Cue roller derby, which has unapologetically re-emerged into popular culture, putting women of all body types onstage

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is made up of two thirty-minute periods: strenuous for all the skaters, especially the jammers, who are the only skaters who can score points. The jammer, sporting stars on either side of their helmet, has only one goal when skating: passing the opposing blocker without causing a penalty. With four blockers from each team on the track forming up a pack, the two jammers race through the pack of skaters in hopes of being the first skater through. The first jammer through has the special ability to call off the jam, which allows her to stop game play by placing her hands on her hips. Strategic-ally, the jammer attempts to score as many points as possible by lapping the blockers, then calls off the jam in order to prevent the other jammer from scoring.

Tryouts for the league take place every September, when wannabe rollergirls demonstrate their basic skating skills. Once shortlisted, the potential skaters then go through boot camp training where they learn derby skills such as blocking, hitting and whipping. Like the games, the boot camp is very demanding: often a handful of girls drop out before the draft, which takes place in February in time for the beginning of the next season. Currently the league is made up of three house teams—The Faster Pussycats, Riot Girls and The Bad Reputations—with skaters who simultaneously play for the All-Star travel team. Referees and independent skaters also contribute to the league both on and off the track, and each skater is expected to pay dues and volunteer time in helping with the day-to-day operations of the league.

It’s not uncommon seeing rollergirls running around, working on last minute tasks just moments before the whistle is blown, signaling the beginning of the game. “If we didn’t put so much effort into the league, we would not be able to

play derby,” says Shift Kicker, who plays for the Riot Girls. “Without all the work, there would be no place to play, no funds to pay for rentals, no coaches, no games and no fans.”

“The simple fact that it is a full-contact sport created and defined by women is hugely meaningful,” says Luludemon, who also plays for the Riot Girls. Luludemon is the owner and designer of Pivot Star Designs, a roller derby-inspired brand of clothing. Derby girls across Canada wear the shorts she produces for the line, intended for practice or for bouts. Predictably, the shorts are quite revealing, but no more so than a typical pair of bike shorts. “Roller derby women are proud of their bodies, which they train hard to get and aren’t shy about showing off,” explains Luludemon. “No matter

what size you are, you can use your body effectively on the track and be proud of what it can do; you should show it off however you want.”

With an average of three practices a week and a strong emphasis on training and nutrition, the Terminal City

DERBY ALLOWS ME TO USE MY PROPORTIONS TO MY ADVANTAGE AND FEEL

GOOD ABOUT WHAT I WAS GIVEN.

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Rollergirls maintain a body-positive environment that en-courages strength and endurance, rather than weight loss and extreme dieting. “Growing up, I was always the fat kid who was teased on a daily basis,” explains Tight Lacey, a teammate of Shameless’. “Roller derby has definitely made me feel more confident about my body; it feels awesome to be part of a community that loves curves.” In other sports such as wrestling, it is ideal for athletes to focus on weight loss, whereas in roller derby, gaining a few pounds is often an advantage due to its full-contact nature. “Derby attire can be criticized for being racy, but I don’t see it that way,” says Tight Lacey. “I can wear booty shorts with pride. Derby also allows me to use my proportions to my advantage and feel good about what I was given. Derby is also a great motiva-tion to become healthier, especially when I have a team that depends on me.”

Unlike the roller derby of the 1960s, nothing is rehearsed or faked on the track. Hitting, blocking and whipping are all acceptable in game play, whereas tripping, elbowing and cutting the track are not. Each skater needs to have an under-standing of how their body can be used most effectively in game play, whether it is by throwing all their body weight against an opposing jammer or using agility and skating low in order to get by a wall of blockers.

Regardless of size and shape, it is a huge part of roller-girl culture to showcase your bruises like badges of honour. It is not uncommon to see a skater pull up her shorts to uncover a dark purplish bruise from a fall at practice. Simi-larly, rink rash from skidding across the floor is also exhib-ited with pride. The aggressive nature of the sport actually encourages camaraderie over competitiveness: skaters often congratulate one another after a gruesome bout. Notes are taken on strategy, while others applaud hard hits and suc-cessful dekes. However, not all skaters are fortunate enough to walk away with a simple black and blue reminder. Torn muscles, sprained wrists and even broken ankles are some of the injuries the athletes endure. Although the recovery time is a long and painful process, more times than not, skaters come back in full force, willing to take on the brutality of game play.

When I square up on the jammer line waiting for the double whistle, I am conscious of the fans screaming in the stands, but more so, I am aware of what my body is about to do for me. As the momentum of the oval track pushes me outward and my feet slide within my tightly tied roller-skates, I can feel my left quad muscle supporting my body weight as I push hard with my right foot. I bite down on my mouthguard, and I feel sweat trickling down the side of my face. All I can think about is how great it feels to skate. I realize that roller derby really isn’t just a sport, and it’s not just a lifestyle either. It’s a revolutionary movement wherein women are able to love their body for its ability rather than its looks. And that’s empowering.

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THIS WRESTING

LIFEInterview by Jeff Lawrence

Photography by Brandon Gaukel

P RO WRESTLING IS ALL ABOUT CASTING THE ILLUSION OF violence. Who wins or loses is moot—it’s the reaction of the audience that mat-ters, and like the burly men inside the ring, bigger is always better. Sad Mag spent a day in the boots of Extreme Canadian Championship Wrestling star Scotty

Mac in Surrey as he went about his daily routine of training and tanning. While the words “Jersey” and “Shore” may come to mind, wrestling is simply performance art and with his golden-brown skin, dyed-blonde hair and muscular body, Scotty Mac is playing his part to perfection.

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“I just want to entertain the crowd; that’s it.”


Not much separates Scott from his character, Scotty Mac. The people he keeps in his life are the people he works with on a daily basis, and that’s it. “I’m happiest when I surround myself with wrestlers all the time,” he says.

“Wrestling boots are, well, if you want good ones they’re custom made and they usually cost at least $300.”

Scotty Mac has a good sense of humour about the amount of time he spends looking in a mirror. “Wrestlers,” he says, “are just like drag queens.”

“I always get the tan in. A lot of the time when I’m tanning I’m thinking about my match and I’m able to visualize.”

“When you’re acting in theatre or something and you’re the hero, they don’t really ask you if you won. It really doesn’t matter as long as the performance went well; that’s what it’s about.”

“I recorded every Raw and Nitro for a while and just kept it. Because a lot of stuff that was done five, ten, fifteen years ago I can put in my match now and people don’t know.”

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“As a bad guy I’d say: Shut your mouth!” he says in a voice reminiscent of Jack Nicholson.

“I spelled it on a T-shirt m-a-a-a-o-u-t-h.”


PERSON, PLACE AND THING

1. SpandyAndy 2. Junk Fence 3. Empty Billboards

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1. SPANDYANDYby Lauren Schachter

Photography by Shane Oosterhoff

I’M SPANDYANDY ALL THE TIME,” VANCOUVER’S tightest and brightest-clothed sensation tells me. I doubt this for a minute because he isn’t wearing his signature spandex—a diamond-patterned, multi-hued jumpsuit—

for our interview. But as he keeps talking—with unhurried poise and many smiles—it’s clear that SpandyAndy is a whole lot more than just a costume. Since moving to the West Coast a little over a year ago from Red Deer, Alberta, Spandy has sought out an unconventional line of work. He’s like a super-hero fighting intolerance with eccentricity, and boredom with elasticized surprises, except that he doesn’t lead the typical superhero’s double-life. In fact, Spandy so harmonized with his performance-persona that I never even ask him for an-other name.

Spandy’s self-made school of yoga, dance classes and serving job at the Mongolie Grill support these comedic dance acts, which pop up all over the city and on the Internet; he often performs impromptu sets at English Bay and at the occasional corporate birthday party, and even sends live tele-grams. He loves to shock strollers on the Vancouver Seawall with his hyperbolic pelvic thrusts, and even encourages spec-tators to banish their self-consciousness and get their dance grooves on in public. Spandy believes dance to be “the perfect language,” because once you’re dancing without inhibition, your happiness can’t be misinterpreted—and it’s infectious. This makes dance the perfect vehicle for Spandy’s philosophy, which defines “to spandicize” as the act of spreading positiv-ity and a sense of glee for the here and now—and he insists that everyone has the power to spandicize.

His love for connecting with random people—coupled with a keen business sense—fuels Spandy’s plans for a reality TV show, future appearances in Toronto and Japan, and the development of an anti-bullying program for kids. His ethos of positivity actually has its roots in the humourous techniques he relied on as a child faced with frequent bully-ing and anti-Semitism. He jokes that “SpandyAndy” is not so much an enterprise as a religion and reminds me to stay “tight and bright” before skateboarding off into the grey Vancouver day. I grin and think: the future is wrapped in neon for this dancing philosopher.

2. JUNK FENCEby Megan Lau

Photography by Justin Longoz

THERE’S AN EMPTY LOT THERE ON THE northwest corner surrounded by a chain link fence. Locals pull up on the sidewalk facing Macdonald Street in their SUVs and dump their used clothes

and household items in local charities’ bins, before driving east to pick new wares.

Facing Fourth Avenue, there’s a bus stop and a careful arrangement of goods for the taking, propped up against and hung on the fence: a black bra, a row of records, a sequined toque, and a pair of shorts. There’s also a leather jacket—the lining half in place—a television set, a painting of a lion, and a concert T-shirt in faded gray.

I’ve tried to find out who the mystery merchandiser is. I’ve always imagined a wizard-like sage in tie-dye with a penchant for interesting junk. Curious, I sleuthed online; a few photographers said it was just a place for locals to leave their cast-offs for passers-by.

I was glad to have an answer but was disappointed that it was so plain.

Weeks later, I drove by with a friend and told him about my ongoing fascination with the fence: the redolent and ever-changing displays, its diminished state post-Olympics, and its strange provenance. My friend replied with confi-dence that the answers I had found on the Internet weren’t true. “There is a man behind the junk fence,” he said, hav-ing learned from his father that the man used to own a junk shop beside Bishop’s restaurant, just a few blocks east. “Now, when the weather is nice, he walks by with a cart of goods and some hangers for the dresses and T-shirts.”

So I plan to stake out the site from the rooftop patio across the street, like a kid waiting for Kris Kringle on Christmas Eve.

A week later, I answer my cellphone.“He’s here! He has his cart.”“What does he look like?” I ask.“Like a hippie Santa Claus.”

“

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3. EMPTY BILLBOARDSby Darryl Cressman

Photography by Ryan Walter Wagner

A FEW MONTHS AGO, LOCAL NEWSPAPERS reported that billboards in Vancouver were going missing—stolen, actually, by thieves intent on selling the aluminum as scrap metal. The reports

mentioned that the thieves dressed like the unassuming work-ers I often see changing the billboard while I wait for the bus.

After looking at one of these vacant billboards, I began to think that there is something else going on here, that it’s not simply a matter of thieves creatively going about the appropriation of scrap metal. The obvious lack of words and images where have come to expect words and images only emphasizes the barrage of messages we are inundated with daily. A blank billboard communicates more than the message “thieves made off with the aluminum,” it communi-cates a lack—it draws attention to what most of us take for granted. Not advertising itself, but rather the tone employed in the language used for advertising: promotionalism.

The lack of promotionalist language is a welcome, albeit temporary reprieve from simplistic slogans that have come to stand in for language and communication. The desire to make it snappy, to get your point across as quickly and simply as possible, has become an end in itself. We live in a society where what is advertised is promotionalism. The next time I see someone removing the billboard by the bus stop, I can only hope it is a thief intent on freeing our visual space from such simplistic and detrimental uses of language. Semiotic guerilla warfare, indeed.

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22nd VANCOUVER

QUEER FILM FESTIVAL

Vancouver’s 2nd largest film festivalAugust 12-22

queerfilmfestival.ca


girls girls girls: issue 4

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