Saturday, 7 May 2016

ROKAS

Fashion photographer Rokas Darulis crunches his 6ft 5inch, 93KG frame into a solid crouch, crams the Canon MKIII firmly to his eye under his black Criminal Damage snapback cap, depresses the shutter and releases a rapid rattle of frames through a 50mmm lens. “Perfect, really good, just keep moving like that” is the quiet but firm advice he delivers to 25 year old Belgium born model, Yannick Abrath, as he fluidly moves in front of Darulis’s lens, moves  Abrath has honed over a six-year career working in the industry. Darulis, who wouldn’t look out of place on the pages of a fashion magazine himself, shoots fast: no gimmicks no assistant, no fuss. He has to shoot fast, this street that runs parallel to London’s Waterloo Bridge is busy; a mixed-race family with orange balloons from the Giraffe restaurant chain tied to a pushchair bobble on past. Duck Tour amphibious trucks grumble menacingly close to Darulis’s Tamrac bag plopped by the side of the pavement and a blonde-haired dwarf in a green dress wobbles quickly towards the Hayward Gallery.
 

I graduated from the University of Derby in 1995 with a first class honours degree in photography and moved swiftly to London; two years on the dole followed, sponging off my parents and scratching around for extra images to bolster my portfolio. Fourteen years later, Lithuanian born Darulis, graduated from Middlesex University with a first-class honours degree in photography; in his first year out of university working as a professional, commissions for magazines Pravda (in Lithuania), Monika and Tank were completed. He shot for commercial client Svyturys Beer and seven days a week for the British online fashion and beauty store ASOS. He was asked to shoot tests for Elite model management agency, a request that could have become a formulaic, factory produced series of images. They are not. Darulis’s Portraits of Girls in my Studio (the studio being a small corner of his rented apartment) are exquisite, each shot crafted with the aspirational professionalism of Irving Penn, the skill of Richard Avedon, the eye of Peter Lindbergh and the mood of Paolo Roversi. Elite were impressed enough to start paying him £30 per model, then £70 per model, then £175 per model.

It’s the Portraits of Girls in my Studio and his Seaside Stories images that convinced me, in 2012, to curate and commission his first UK solo show at White Cloth Gallery. The exhibition remains one of the most fondly remembered and talked about by those who caressed their eyes across it. 6ft prints of chisel-chinned men crying, towered down on dark, moody prints of sultry men sucking back cigarette smoke. Square formatted chaps with sculpted moustaches bristled alongside semi-naked young women folded into fur coats or stretched out across crisp cotton bed sheets wearing sheer white panties.




If you can take such spontaneously delicious shots at the seaside of your friends there has to be potential. It helps if your friends are spontaneously delicious and your girlfriend is the Lithuanian born model, Julija Steponaviciute aka Step. Represented by Storm model management (their website reliably informs) Step has a height of 5’ 10.5” (179.07cm), has green eyes, light brown hair, 32” bust, 34.5” (87.63) hips, 24” (60.96cm) waist, dress size UK 8 and wears a UK 6 shoe. She has modelled for Italian GLAMOUR, Elle France, Fashion Gone Rogue magazine and Damernas Vald Sweden among others. Darulis and Step have been together over four years and she has been successful enough in those years, to buy outright, a 98 square metre apartment in the Lithuanian capital, Vilnuis.

©Rokas Darulis

Darulis was born in the small town of Siauliai, the cyclops eye of Lithuania. He was four years old when his country officially gained independence from the Communist Soviet Union. This afforded him the opportunity to put down his wooden toys and pick up exotic imported fruits rich in colour and flavour, that the iron curtain had denied him. “Exotic fruits such as…?” I ask him. “The banana!” he exclaims triumphantly pointing into the air. In search of more exotic fruit, or perhaps, more likely, in search of better paid work across the free world, his diplomat parents took him to Dublin and Chicago before he was sent back to live on his grandparents' farm. On his arrival, his grandfather gave him an old Soviet KIEV 35mmm camera to play around with and Darulis was on his way. When recently giving a talk about his career to date, at the Lithuanian equivalent of London’s Excel centre, 800 people turned up to hear him. That probably makes him one of Lithuania’s most famous sons alongside Zydrunas Savickas (below), who has won the country’s Strongest Man competition a record 12 times.


Balanced precariously close to the edge on the third floor balcony at the National Theatre, Darulis completes another of the required ten shots for the Korean edition of Arena Homme+ magazine and retires to take a breather and a gulp of his aloe vera mango juice. Even sat down in the boot of the silver/grey Volkswagen Transporter van he dominates: a Godzilla in the East Asian team. As the Alexander McQueen, Paul Smith, Dior and Pringle designer clothes chime in the breeze dangling from coat hangers around Darulis head, he flips the lid on his Mac laptop, rams a 16GB Extreme III CompactFlash card into the card reader and reviews the morning's work. The previews are beautiful and crisp, honest and enjoyable, black & white. Darulis doesn’t trust the in-camera colours. Satisfied, he springs up onto his Nike Air Max clad feet, tucks his key chain into his long black skinny jeans, neatens his white T-shirt and bounds towards the next shoot scenario.

©Rokas Darulis

A few days later, I catch up with him on the trim terrace of an Italian eatery in north London. In April 2014, he packed up his bags and left expensive London to return to live in Lithuania. Arriving back in Lithuania, he had a call inviting him to join the east London based, Saint Luke Artist Management Agency (three years after he first approached them about representation). With no need to pack his bags, he just turned back around and retraced his journey. The Saint Luke Agency, represents photographers Nik Hartley, Dima Hohlov, Alexandra Leese and Rahel Weiss; they could have their pick of more established photographers, but picked Darulis.


Since he's been on the books at Saint Luke, Darulis has been busy. Very busy. He has three to four meetings a day when he’s not shooting and has shot on assignment in Shanghai and Tokyo. His diary may be full but that isn’t necessarily reflected in his bank account. The only person that seemed to be on a salary from the Korean Arena Homme+ shoot was the van driver Dave. Darulis explains that most young fashion photographs aren’t paid for editorial assignments as most magazines are culpable of not offering a fee, Dazed & Confused and Wanderlust among them. He knows he has come far since graduating from Middlesex University but appreciates he has a long way to go. He thinks it could take another 20-30 years to achieve what photographic legends Mario Testino, Juergen Teller and Steven Meisel have achieved and then one of them would have to stop working, or die, before an opportunity to shoot for the world’s most sought-after clients would be ‘up for grabs’.

A month into a Masters Degree Darulis quit, keen to get to work,. He says that, in retrospect, would have quit a month into his undergraduate degree too, to get to work assisting, which he thinks is “the best education”. There is no plan B for this alpha male (except perhaps, playing poker) with his swimmers frame, basketball player's height, FBI Agent cool and photographic talent but with “patience, luck, working hard and being involved in everything you can” Darulis believes he will succeed, and I for one, believe him.

A version of this feature first appeared in issue 118 of Professional Photo magazine UK

Friday, 9 October 2015

DENCH DOES DALLAS : The Book


  • Paperback: 176 pages
  • Publisher: The Bluecoat Press (19 Oct. 2015)
  • Available to order HERE

©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage

 “In the summer 2015, award winning photojournalist, Peter Dench, was unleashed to photograph the iconic city of Dallas, Texas. Dench’s journey took him across the vast urban landscape capturing the colour and characters he met along the way. His forensic eye reveals a place far removed from the fantasies of film and television, a contrasting metroplex of baseball caps and cowboy hats, horsepower and horses. DENCH DOES DALLAS, the book and exhibition, is a saturated slap about the senses, a sideways glance at a fully loaded, remarkable American territory.”


 ©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage


Thursday, 26 February 2015

The British Abroad : Magaluf

The first time I went abroad was in 1986; the destination was the party town of Magaluf, Majorca. Aged 14, already a seasoned beer drinker, my parents decided it was OK for me to have an alcoholic spirit in my drink; the alcoholic spirit I chose was the white rum, Bacardi. Bacardi was cheaper than coke (my mixer of choice) and the measures reflected that. The bars delivered a buy one, get two free offer and my mum, dad and older sister (by three years) Jennifer, clattered 12 glasses onto our uneven metal table outside the Benny Hill party pub, not far from the Green Parrot Bollocks bar. We slowly sucked back the potent sugary blend through bendy straws and watched the mayhem gather.


In the morning, my dad asked if I was OK? I told him I was fine. He asked If I remembered being woken from the bath in our hotel room on several occasions during the night. I told him I did not and suggested we go for a full English breakfast. My dad pulled on his dark blue swimming trunks with light blue trim; I pulled on my light blue swimming trunks with dark blue trim; we both pulled up a chair at our beach bar of choice and washed the omnipresent English staple down with a couple of beers.


The remainder of the holiday was spent bouncing down newly built water slides on bleak mountainsides (I doubt the slides had the required safety standard kite mark); watching fixed grin dolphins perform predictable tricks and flicks with a ball and bobbing around in the sea with my frequently topless mum and sister (according to the poorly framed and focused film photographs that remain in the album).

I did not drink any more Bacardi.


The second time I went abroad was in 1989; the destination was the party town of Magaluf, Majorca. My family had been replaced with friends Marc, Jason and Stuart. At our hotel, boys from Bury hurled carrier bags containing their bottom deposits from the balcony into unsuspecting fun seekers staggering along the street below. Two girls from Newcastle, in an adjacent bedroom, warned us not to leave our towels to dry on the balcony as the sun turned them yellow; it wasn’t the sun that turned them yellow - it was more body deposits cascading down from the Bury boys. 


During the day, we carried our money around in plastic tubes hung from string around our necks; during the night, we left the plastic tubes that carried our daily allowance in the back of taxis or at the bar. On our second morning, Jason woke up stuck to his hotel bed sheets, a layer of skin the length of his now red raw torso had been removed; he had no memory of how it happened. A few days later, as we passed a deep roadworks excavation, he remembered.

The remainder of the holiday was spent buying imitation Kappa and Lacoste polo shirts, sweatbands and tracksuits; losing our drinks-tally card that you needed to pay to exit the dance club BCM (not a good strategy for a club) and unsuccessfully trying to endorse the reputation of the town dubbed, Shagaluf.

I did not drink Bacardi.



In 2013, I returned to Magaluf, Majorca, for a third (and probably final) time to document the British party phenomenon. It was one of five locations I chose from some of Europe's most popular beach destinations: Ibiza, Bulgaria, Cyprus and Croatia completes the quintet.

I think the photographs will make a terrific book that can be appreciated for many years and provide an important permanent document of this unique slice of British life abroad. An edit from the reportage can be viewed here



I’ve set up a Kickstarter crowd funding page; if funding is a success, I’ll be collaborating with Bluecoat Press, who published my second visual monograph A&E: Alcohol & England, last year. Bluecoat Press will again design, print and distribute The British Abroad hardback book.



In addition to the more traditional 35mm colour reportage, there's a section of images shot with the Lomography Diana F+ camera like the one above, of 26-year old Daisy from Clapham, south London. If you know Daisy, please forward her contact details; I'd like to say "hi" and send her a print.

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You can pre-order the book via the Kickstarter page along with many other rewards and incentives I think you’ll enjoy. Please feel free to share the campaign and together we can make this book happen.


After photographing a wet t-shirt competition at Mambo’s Bar in Magaluf, I decided I deserved a drink, called over the barman and firmly requested a Bacardi and coke, raised it up, took a sniff,  shuddered violently and lowered the glass onto the bar. After 28 years, I still can't drink Bacardi.

©Peter Dench 2015

Friday, 24 October 2014

New Book Released : A&E


Published by The Bluecoat Press: available via Amazon & Waterstones


Pickled. Soused. Mullered. Blotto. Hog-whimpering. Pie-eyed.  Tired and emotional; downwind of a few. The presence of so many words and phrases in the English language, to describe a state of inebriation, surely says something about the English themselves: this is a nation that seeks the comfort of oblivion - towards the bottom of a bottle.

But why do the English tipple until they fall over? Is it simply the weather, so wearyingly unpredictable? Is it to overcome the awkwardness inherent in a half-denied class system? Is it just because the English are more culturally advanced, and have realised there is no cure for the human condition but nice-tasting painkillers?

All these possibilities are explored in Peter Dench’s witty, clever, poignant, challenging, sometimes dazzling, sometimes affecting photo-diary of Anglo-Celtic drunkenness. The result is a unique and compelling visual history, full of photography that bears a striking resemblance to the drinking it depicts: at best it is perfectly intoxicating. Sean Thomas

A & E: Alcohol and England
Photographer Peter Dench
ISBN: 9781908457233
Format: Hardback (270x290mm)156pp
RP: £19.99

The Bluecoat Press will be hosting a very English triple book launch at The Photographers' Gallery in London UK on the 13th November 2014 - details here


Thursday, 19 June 2014

DEREK

Derek, from Hull, who says he is a “good person”, doesn’t know the chunky man he is trying unsuccessfully to heave upright from the pavement. Derek is a self-confessed ‘wreck head’ and doesn’t like to leave people of any size passed out and alone on the pavement in case they get robbed. Living in Hull, I’d be surprised if Derek ever gets home at all. To be fair, the man on the pavement looks as though he has already been robbed; his feet are bare and the lack of tumescence in his pockets suggest likewise.

Derek learnt that the man was English, but failed to get his name, during a brief verbal exchange before he collapsed. Derek has decided to name the man on the pavement, Derek. “Get the F*** UP Derek!” Says Derek. Derek from Hull has no credit on his mobile phone to call 24/7, a voluntary Christian organisation that finds people who have got themselves a little messed up and helps get them back to their accommodation. As the sun reflects on to the scene from the bleach being liberally hosed around by local business employees, a group of half a dozen friends at the end of their night walk over. None of them have a phone Derek can use, or the few that admit they do, admit to not having any credit. Cars pass and splinter glass, crunching slowly away without a sideways glance from the drivers and street cleaners sweep the debris from around the sleeping giant.

©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage

An ambulance arrives, the seen-it-all-before employees disembark with fluorescent efficiency, flicking the ends of the fingers of their patient and firmly squeezing his face. It works, and he pings to a seated right angle, and then throws up in a proffered bag before being guided in to the ambulance and sirened away. It’s not what Derek from Hull wanted, aware that the man could now be presented with a medical bill as hefty as his midriff. Derek spent his night partying at club Amnesia; it’s not one he’ll forget. Probably.

Welcome to San Antonio, Ibiza, one of five destinations I documented the British abroad during the summer 2013: Sunny Beach, Bulgaria; Ayia Napa, Cyprus; Porec, Croatia and Magaluf, Majorca completes the quintet. It’s a typical scene, echoed each summer across the party resorts of Europe. The British binge drinking followed by public order problems are reported as increasingly common in European holiday resorts. The statistics are alarming. Arrests of British citizens in Spain have increased by a third with the majority related to alcohol consumption. A recent foreign office report flagged Greece as the most dangerous place in the world for British women after more than 40 were raped in a year; the men responsible were mainly drunk British men. Binge drinking Britons regularly top the league of drunken holiday hooligans.

A lucrative industry has evolved for drinks companies and tour operators to meet the needs of Britons seeking to party abroad. Club 18-30, founded in 1970, continues to thrive exporting 110,000 guests each year with the average age of 19. The company is reported to turnover around £50 million a year. 2wentys holidays, have been enticing the thirsty Brit abroad for 25 years with promises of scorching hot clubbing holidays and the ILOVETOUR company, who market themselves as organisers of the world’s greatest sports and group tours, transport 1000’s of British students to beach party destinations.

©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage

Arriving at your destination, party promoters hawk the streets selling tickets for everything the Brit abroad has come to expect; foam parties, boat parties, water parties, luminous paint parties and the holiday staple, the organised party bar crawl. Party Hard in Ayia Napa, offer a bar crawl every Tuesday that includes five bars, drinking games, free shots and free club entry. Now in it’s 5th year at Sunny Beach, the Party Crew's, Let’s Go F**king Mental bar crawl, is three times a week. Tourists can expect a welcome cocktail, five free shots, a visit to four popular party bars and two free entrances to clubs. According to Party Crew employee Ashley, Bulgarian regulations dictate the bar crawl can’t exceed 200 people and must be off the streets (and in a club) by midnight. The bar crawl doesn’t include a visit to one of the many prominent Erotic Bars, where sex is openly tendered by the bars promoters for around €55.

From the second floor balcony of my room at the Sol Trinidad hotel, Magaluf, I slowly drink a bottle of Tempranillo and watch objects from the seven floors above cascade down. There’s a plastic waste paper bin, an electric hair dryer, a pane of glass, watermelon husks, a banana skin, an apple, peanut shells and a slice of cheese. Shoes and socks (but never a pair), a bra, bottle tops and bottle bottoms, a can of deodorant, a watch, a wallet, a newspaper, myriad take-away cartons, toilet roll, a plastic fork and various yellow tinged liquids. Some items are projected or thrown, some items fall.

©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage

Most worryingly of all, an increasing number of people fall. In 2012, 23 year-old Daniel Geary fell about 20ft from a balcony at hotel Martinique, sustaining serious head and back injuries. 20 year-old Adam Atkinson, wasn’t so fortunate, falling to his death from a third floor balcony at the same hotel. Benjamin Harper, 28, plunged to his death from a fifth floor balcony at the four-star Sol Antillas Hotel. Charlotte Faris, 23, fell  to her death from the one-star Teix Hotel, and that’s just Magaluf. In San Antonio, Michael white, 27, died after he slipped and fell from a balcony at Hotel Orosol after leaning out to be sick. In 2011, at the adjacent Hotel Galera, Jodie Taylor, 25, died falling from the third floor after arguing with a guest from the floor above. In 2010, a short walk down the road, at the Sa Clau apartments, Andrew Warren died in hospital shortly after he fell more than 40ft from a balcony. A few days after I leave Sunny Beach, Liam Davies, 19, plummets ten floors to his death.

The main strip in Ayia Napa is flanked by games with balls you can kick and bags you can punch. Two deaf black girls search on the street for a lost earring oblivious to the speeding mopeds whose drivers swerve towards them whacking their horns. They don’t notice 19 year-old Calum, a plumber from Scotland, being jovially pushed along by friends in a wheelchair. Calum slipped on the floor where he was staying and fell through a patio door and off a first floor balcony, severing the tendons in both of his legs. Travel operator, Thomas Cook, arranged for three seats for him on the aeroplane home as Calum had travel insurance. It’s surprising how many  visitors I talk to that “couldn’t be bothered” with travel insurance. They should be very bothered, Adam Atkinson, wasn’t insured, and many thousands of Euros had to be raised to cover the cost of returning him to the UK.

©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage

32 year-old Security Officer, George, is about to finish another nine-hour shift on the stretch of Magaluf beach he patrols alone, seven days a week, five months a year. During the night, armed with only a baton and five years experience, he had to disperse a rowdy crowd of around 20 youths trying to launch pedalos into the sea. A previous night, a Swedish tourist he interrupted being intimate with a young woman, stabbed him in his stab vest. I’m just wearing shorts and a vest, and cautiously start to photograph the British tourists slumped face down in the sand and slung limp across sun beds. They have until 6.30am before George, with the same brutal efficiency as the San Antonio medical team, starts jabbing and slapping the beach bodies awake and marching them towards their ‘can’t-quite-remember-where’ hotels. They are lucky if they still have their wallet or phone on them that George says, the dark skinned ‘looky-looky’ men, look to pinch from them during the dark.

©Peter Dench/Getty Images Reportage

Back in San Antonio, a British father is removed from the beach on a stretcher after falling unconscious. A pale skinned man from near Manchester, recently deposited on the island by Monarch airlines, skinny-dips in the Balearic Sea. Another man washes the blood from his elbow that he thinks he split open when he smashed it through a shop window. In Ayia Napa, promoters for the ‘most popular’ strip club in town, knock on apartment doors offering a free ride to the venue and what the girls can offer off menu; “Hand jobs, blow jobs, anything you want really”. The appropriated poster girl for the venue is former British television soap opera actress and glamour model, Jennifer Ellison; I doubt she’s aware of the endorsement. The fixed grin of the unblinking omnipresent KFC Colonel rises up from the ‘finger lickin’ litter and peers down at the scenes of the pissed and the pilled-up he’s watched over for a generation, and I suspect, for many more to come.


Life can at times be limiting and disappointing. When you’ve saved up all year for a week in the sun, sometimes, all you can do as a Brit abroad, is book into a cheap hotel, fasten on your highest heels, pull up your shortest shorts (men just pull up your shorts), stick a coloured straw in a fishbowl full of Rushkinoff Vodka, turn on and up ‘Play Hard’ by David Guetta (featuring Ne-Yo and Akon), put your hands in the air, and wave them them like you just don’t F**king care, because next week you’ll be back in Wigan.
Pre Order a copy of The British Abroad hardback photo book here

In 1989, aged 17, I went on holiday to Magaluf, Majorca



An edit of the images are available to view at Getty Images

A version of this feature first appeared in Issue #12 Volume 1 of Hungry Eye magazine available to buy here


Thursday, 29 May 2014

Unique Print of the UK

Hello!

I'm photographer Peter Dench.

Are you looking for a unique gift for yourself or loved one?

Do you have a special place in the UK you like to remember; where you proposed, first fell in love, had your first beer or lost your virginity?

If you do, then how about this: I will visit your specified place of interest, create a bespoke 'in the spirit of DENCH' 16 x 20 inch print, then delete the original digital file leaving you a unique signed limited edition of 1/1 with certificate of authenticity.

Email a suggestion of what (or even who) you'd like photographed to peter@peterdench.com

£500 all inclusive




















Sunday, 14 July 2013

Cafe Royal Books & The British Abroad

Cafe Royal Books

There are very few doing so much to promote the work of British photographers as Craig Atkinson at CRB books. I am delight to join the portfolio of published artists with the release of Suited and Booted.




And here's a related book release mouth2mouth interview I gave to respected Creative Director, Pedro Silmon.

The British Abroad

This year I was fortunate enough to receive a grant from the Photoreporter Festival to shoot a new project on the British abroad; the work will premier at the festival in October. During June I visited: Ayia Napa, Cyprus; Sunny Beach, Bulgaria; San Antonio, Ibiza and Magaluf, Majorca in search of the thirsty Brit abroad. The images are embargoed until after the festival, I think you'll like them. In the interim, hers a video postcard from the trip;


Dench Abroad 2013
from Peter Dench on Vimeo.