Carly Allen-Fletcher

WE'RE SUPPORTING

Painter Amy Crehore’s paintings of nudes hanging out in the jungle with monkeys, cats, lions, and little kids dressed like clowns remind me bit of Frida Kahlo’s work. Crehore seems to be making a comment about the male gaze — the women in her work seem to be both aware of and indifferent to the masculine lust they inspire. Read more

WE'RE THINKING

Firekites, from small town Australia (Newcastle to be exact), are my new musical obsession, and have been since early yesterday when their song Autumn Story randomly burst into my headphones and latched itself deep into my inner ear iPod. I wish they’d been around when I last lived in Sydney; it would have been well worth the two hour drive north to see them play. The whole album (The Bowery) is beautiful, but this song especially rings out with poignancy. I love the subtle sound of the fingers sliding across the guitar frets, the gently whispered vocals, which hint at secrets and cheeky serenades, and the sense of soulful introspection that tangles itself elegantly amongst its minor chord tapestry.

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‘Lost’ is the most recent film production in the urban art series produced by Tokyo-based art crew Rinpa Eshidan. Read more

WE'RE TRAVELLING TO

That PETA-endorsed test-tube meat makes me gag a little. All synthetic food does. But maybe we could find a use for it, like making a meat house.

WE'RE READING

Pomocracy is a lifestyle statement Tumblr recently created in Berlin by PoMo, a nurse and designer. It’s an inspirational blog full of weird stuff.

WE'RE LISTENING TO

French duo Trop Tard make straight-faced, Suicide-esque, synth-and-guitar electro tunes that sound like dark rituals performed in the catacombs beneath the streets of Paris. Repetitive, bleak, and cold, this is dance music for the shambling undead.

WE'RE WEARING

Seriously, all jokes aside, we really need to tear ourselves away from our computers every once in a while. These shirts, on sale at Threadless, may be intended as a light-hearted jab at modern culture, but who will be laughing when our hands become gnarled claws from decades of ceaseless typing and our spinal columns have fused solid from lack of movement? Evil monkeys, that’s who.