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Hobo #16 | Editor’s letter

Welcome dear reader, to a new issue of Hobo. You’ll hopefully notice a change as we decided to create a much bigger magazine, one wherein the artwork and texts truly come to life. I’ve always liked the idea of an exceptionally large magazine, a supple book with a nod to the Whole Earth Catalogue. Something of a folly then, which, rolled up, will stick out of your backback like an easel. It has to be impractical to carry around but you do so anyway because it’s romantic, it’s called Hobo, and art, like photography and writing, needs to be physically experienced and interacted with. I’m sure Frédéric Beigbeder would agree.

It’s also a pivotal issue due to who’s in it. Tilda is a major creative influence, an intellectual, and like reading Pauline Kael’s essays, it’s almost as much fun reading her reflections on Only Lovers Left Alive (and for that matter Stephen Scobie’s thoughts on Inside Llewyn Davis) than it is to watch the films themselves. I’m thrilled that Tilda was photographed by the brilliant artist Juergen Teller who I also believe to be the most important fashion photographer of his generation. Travelling from Scotland or Tangiers with a suitcase full of books, Tilda came to meet us in the Bois de Boulogne at dawn one very cold morning in March. Crazily, she’s barefoot in one photo and that was her idea. I met Norman twelve years ago when he helped me shoot Asia Argento for our second cover, all in the same wild and serendipitous afternoon. Life goes on, Norman hasn’t changed – he’s as original – I like him as much as I did then, and we’ve magically come full circle.

As you may know, Hobo started in British Columbia; we wanted to bring your attention to some of the world’s last wild wolves who are either being hunted out of unjustified hatred and ignorance, or losing their home – the wild sanctuaries they’ve kept for thousands of years – to clear cut logging and potentially very devastingly, to a pipeline cutting through the Great Bear Rainforest. Please dive in and read this pure, firsthand account by Ian McAllister. Clearly, as wolves disappear, so does the nature they represent and that we all depend on for spiritual nourishment and physical sustenance.

So despite the physical changes, Hobo is more than ever about artists, films, travels, wild nature and animals. We remain on the side of the outsiders, the dreamers, those who don’t play the obvious game, and continue to feel very much like a ginger cat named Ulysses, watching in wonder as he travels by subway farther and further away from his home, seeing the names of the stations go by.

[Text by Shawn Dogimont]

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Hobo #16 | Norman Reedus

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My buddy Norman Reedus makes his show The Walking Dead in the woods of Georgia, away from Hollywood. He’s had a unique career path and life in general. With his son Mingus, he makes me think of Ogami Itto in the manga The Lone Wolf and Cub. If you look, there’s even a theme of apocalyptic justice running through his work. He’s a longtime cult favourite, a really nice guy, and you just root for him in life and on screen. He’s poised for a massive breakout now but still lives in Chinatown. As he says here: if it’s ever slow acting I’ll just do more art shows. At the moment he’s doing less.

Shawn Dogimont — I’ve got some questions prepared, should I just start?
Norman Reedus — Throw it at me, let’s see what you’ve got.

— You were born in Florida but you didn’t grow up there, you moved away quite young.
— Yeah, I moved from there very young. I don’t remember anything, I was just a baby when I left there. I lived in a few different places, Texas , Florida, California, Colorado, Tokyo for a little while, Motookubo in Chiba. London, at the end of the Northern line. I was in Spain in Sitges, for a little bit and moved to Los Angeles. I followed a girl basically, I went with a girl there.

— How come you lived in all these different places, throughout your teens and twenties? 
— I just bounced around a lot

[Interview & photos by Shawn Dogimont]

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The First Nations peoples have comfortably lived near and with wolves for a millennia, describing them as providers and protectors. I’m dreaming of a future where we will respect and revere wolves again like kin. Wolves are waiting for us to rediscover that relationship. Please join me in my pledge to Pacific Wild, who speak for those unable to speak for themselves and work to save the wolves of the Great Bear Rainforest, truly among the last wild wolves on the planet. — Shawn Dogimont / Support pacificwild.org 
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The First Nations peoples have comfortably lived near and with wolves for a millennia, describing them as providers and protectors. I’m dreaming of a future where we will respect and revere wolves again like kin. Wolves are waiting for us to rediscover that relationship. Please join me in my pledge to Pacific Wild, who speak for those unable to speak for themselves and work to save the wolves of the Great Bear Rainforest, truly among the last wild wolves on the planet. — Shawn Dogimont / Support pacificwild.org 

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Hobo #16 | Excerpt | Following the Last Wild Wolves

The rain pounded down on the roof of my boat; it sounded like a gorilla banging away up there. At the same time, the storm-force gust hit the boat broadside and almost threw me out of my bunk. But I knew that the salmon were now finally entering the forest and would get to their spawning grounds. And the wolves would be waiting for them. 

This had been the driest season on the central coast since records had been kept – the driest for a hundred years. It was the first time in Waglisla had ever seen so many snowless mountain tops from the village. Even the lake fed systems had not contained enough water for the salmon to migrate upriver, so they had been pulling at the mouth. Marine predators such as seals, sea lions, halibut, whales, eagles, and humans had taken their fill. 

I had been gone only a few months from the Fish Trap Pack’s territory, but I sailed up the inlet, I could sense that things had changed. It was strangely quiet. 

With the Fish Traps Again

I stopped off to check the pack’s den site. I knew they were absent before I had even set the anchor, and not just because I couldn’t hear or see any birds in the forest. This den island does not have the salmon resources that the neighbouring one does, so before the salmon migrate upriver, the Fish Traps change location and swim across the channel to the spawning grounds. Islands that provide greater spawning density tend to support more resident competitors such as bears. The wolves thus avoid such islands in the spring and early summer while the pups are vulnerable.

The swim would be the longest the pups had taken so far, but I knew they would have made this aquatic journey with ease.

I was fortunate enough to watch the wolves make the swim one August. I can’t usually observe every pack member at once, but they were all on hand for this move. They made the crossing in single file, with adults bringing up the stern and the bow of the wolf flotilla. Wolves swim across channels and inlets as we cross sidewalks, looking both ways to make sure there is no oncoming traffic.

Many times I have come around the bend in a motorboat and unintentionally forced a wolf to turn around and abandon a crossing. Wolves need to be cautious, since moose and deer swimming between islands have been swallowed by orcas, and some humans armed with guns or gaffs would show little mercy.

When the wolves reached the opposite shore that August, they shook off the salt water and looked back the way they had come, waiting for Three Legs to arrive. I could only imagine how this new experience would be for the pups – a different set of islands, an expansion of their territorial world, a new playground to explore.

Back in the present, at the tide line I located the main trail to the den site. Just one fresh set of adult tracks crossed the mud flat; there were no pup tracks anywhere. Since thousands of tracks are typically associated with active rendezvous and den sites, it was clear that the pack had moved on in search of salmon.

[Excerpt from Following the Last Wild Wolves by Ian McAllister]

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Hobo #16 | Arthur Rimbaud

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I met with Arthur Rimbaud on February 28, 2014 in the cafeteria of Le Bateau ivre, the prize container ship of his Arabica coffee conglomerate, Gentleman Savages Inc. He generously, if inconveniently, summoned me to join him on a transoceanic passage to deliver a shipment from Ethiopia to New Jersey. He doesn’t do phone interviews and doesn’t have the time to indulge in the erotic mechanics – his words – of sitting around some merdique hotel answering the merdique questions of culture salesmen. Well aware of his reputation for solitariness, general orneryness, and robust cynicism, I was naturally taken aback when I received his invitation. I nonetheless interpreted his mandate – come to Ethiopia – as somewhat of a geographical deterrent. Right.  Off I flew to Dire Dawa International near the Gulf of Aden. The present interview was conducted on a series of afternoons during our journey.  Generally, Monsieur Rimbaud would get around to “answering”, in his way, only a single question in a sitting. What follows is the tapestry of these afternoons, each panel joined as well as could be along a seam of thought. On these occasions we would mostly sit eating bread and salted butter and jam, drinking coffee, and speak about what humans and art could be and do and why these days he, for the most part, detests both. By way of preamble, a note on the interviewee’s brief but startlingly radiant pre-mercantilist career. The touchstone of generations of avant-gardes, Arthur Rimbaud was the punk wanderer par excellence, the poet of universal consciousness, tragic and mythic, the hobo god of gods, and I would argue a supreme, albeit, phenomenally nascent wave rider. He completed the works that would revolutionize the written word by the time he was nineteen, abandoning and violently repudiating it all when most kids are picking the last booger of their tidy, if slightly overpriced, little university degrees and smearing it to the under-brim those ridiculous tasseled square caps. Like all good bodhisattvas he was the herald of the adventure into (other)self(lessness) – the self being a middle/mediate term/mode at best, annihilation, and transformation. He killed all who followed him, after the hunt or libation. All followed him…

[Interview by Thaddeus O’Neil / Illustration by Hugo Guinness]

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Hobo #16 | Tilda Swinton

Tilda Swinton’s language is as bewitching as her look. The ethereal Scot drops truisms like Jenny Holzer and evidences her claims in metaphors of nature, adventure, and lore. Life, as per Swinton, “is a wander through strange woods, whistling and following bread crumbs.” She plays. Not acts, plays. She’s played the widow of a high school shooter in We Need to Talk About Kevin, an adulterous Russian trophy wife in I Am Love, the White Witch of Narnia, David Bowie’s double, both man and woman in Orlando, and a too-dutiful general counsel in Michael Clayton. Most recently, she’s played an 84-year-old lover to Ralph Fiennes in Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel, a computerised therapist in Terry Gilliam’s The Zero Theorem, a dictator in Bong Joon-Ho’s sci-fi Snowpiercer, and 3000-year-old vampire, Eve, in Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive. The latter role is most of what Swinton and I discussed in this interview, which was conducted via e-mail; she writing from her home in Scotland, me from mine in Brooklyn. This distance set my hypermediated imagination in overdrive – Tilda, to me, is both star and constellation: a singular artist, a self, but also a composite of every role she’s played. I pictured her in a stone chateau in the country of my forefathers, wrapped in tapestries like Eve, “Moonage Daydream” playing in the background.  

[Interview by Fiona Duncan / Photo by Juergen Teller]

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Hobo #16 | Poems on the films of Jean-Luc Godard

Breathless              1960

At the edge, at the limit of breath,
time for a new sensation —
the gun abrupt and clumsy in his hands.

Thumb tracing the line of his lip,
sun-dazzle over trees, and then the bridge,
the river flowing under Notre-Dame.

Her T-shirt on the Avenue, tribune:
herald of a new wave rising.
Tonight I will be with you in Paradise.

What you believe in the long conversation,
Matisse and Renoir on the wall, the tiny room
filled by a bed and William Faulkner.

The man on the street pointing him out, and
pointing you the way to go. A phone call’s betrayal —
dégueulasse.

Trying to reach the intersection,
rue Campagne-Première:
staggering, falling, falling again.

What does it mean?
What does that strange word mean?

[Poem by Stephen Scobie]

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