“We were interested in writing about a relationship that was undergoing change,” explained Jess Garton, co-writer and actress in Quicksand. The short film, set on the sunlit shores of Jersey, explores the relationship between Cecilia (Deborah Cornelius) and Albert (Clive Mantle) – two characters loosely inspired by her grandparents – and the adaptations they go through while navigating Alzheimer’s together. “We shot in my grandparents’ house, and the film was inspired by the adjustments they made,” she continued. “Both Ted and I wanted to write a short film that would start conversations about dementia and target the stigma that still surrounds it.”

What’s normal for one person experiencing dementia may not be normal for the next, and the Quicksand team prioritised emphasising this. “Everyone has such unique stories with dementia,” Jess explained, stressing the importance of recognising that Quicksand portrays just one of those narratives. “We would never expect this to represent everybody’s experience,” she said. “The main thing was just that it would make people feel and think, and honour people who are experiencing this every day. If it does that, I’ll be happy.”

The film follows Cecilia and Albert as they face a difficult new chapter in their lives. Jess plays the younger version of Cecilia, who appears in fleeting memories intercut throughout the film. These scenes are tinged with amber warmth and depict a youthful, romantic love – conversations on the beach at golden hour, cozy chats over coffee, whimsical ukulele songs composed across the kitchen counter. The warm, intimate setting and soft costumes enhance the nostalgic tone, capturing a time when life felt easier and more hopeful. “When anybody is young, there’s a kind of zest for life about them,” said Jess, reflecting on the nature of these memories. “The younger versions of the characters convey that love and youthfulness – the idea that they have their whole lifetime ahead of them, with so much to look forward to.”

Quicksand powerfully contrasts idealism with realism – the gap between how we imagine our future and how it actually unfolds. “We all have this romantic idea that you’ll find someone and grow old together,” Jess said. Quicksand explores one possible version of that future, offering a raw portrayal of the challenges it might bring. Cecilia is still deeply in love with Albert – she smiles at him through the garden window, and is moved by his retelling of childhood memories, even if she’s heard them many times before. Yet the film doesn’t shy away from showing the lows: the worry, fatigue, and the disorienting pain of a partner who is present one moment and absent the next.

“Albert is sparky – he has a fun personality,” Jess noted, “and that comes through in moments. We wanted to reflect how dementia changes the nature of their interactions. Albert’s character comes and goes rather than remains constant.” Before dementia, you’re ‘yourself’ all the time. With it, some days are good, others less so. “That’s the nature of it,” Jess explained. “You have times when it feels normal, and times when it doesn’t. That’s part of what we wanted to show – the ebb and flow of their life.”

The set design subtly reflects the shifts Albert and Cecilia experience. Over time, more post-it notes appear in the kitchen, with pictures of the couple labelled and taped around the house. “It’s a very common experience,” Jess said, clearly drawing from personal memories. “It often starts with things like tea – ‘Where are the tea bags?’ or ‘Where’s the coffee?’ You start with these, and as time goes on, they build up.” The evolving home environment – introducing wall handles and a raised chair for Albert – mirrors their efforts to create a space that offers more mental and physical stability.

Depictions of Alzheimer’s usually centre around a present struggle – the disjointed fight of living with a disease. While Quicksand highlights this, what makes the film so moving is its undercurrent of hope. The arrival of professional carers gives Cecilia a small pocket of time for herself – space to rediscover who she is and begin the next chapter of her life. “Cecilia’s older self is going through something quite life-changing,” Jess said. “In a way, she’s lost a part of herself, too. Quicksand is about reclaiming that, and her process of understanding herself better.”

People often talk about young people ‘finding themselves,’ as though self-discovery is a one-time event. Quicksand challenges that notion. “I think there are multiple points in life where you rediscover yourself,” Jess said. “Cecilia is going through one of those moments – much later in life. Despite the circumstances, I think the film ends with a sense of hope.”

Quicksand is supported by ArtHouse Jersey, Music in Action, Soroptimist International Jersey, and numerous people who supported the crowdfunding campaign. It is also in association with Dementia Jersey.

Experimenting with the boundaries of modern art, in 1989 David Hockney reduced the value of his drawings to nothing by faxing his pictures around the world. The ability to deliver limitless copies to the masses – on thermal paper that would fade with time – suggested that the essence of the work was bound not in its permanence, but in its fleeting nature and wide distribution. A decade later, an old kitchen blind covered in photocopies of those same faxed images was sold for 11,000 pounds to a surrealist gallery of ‘fictional art’. In response, Hockney faxed a fresh set of the drawings directly to them in protest, attempting to invalidate the sale. “The point of the faxes is that they were given away,” he said. “They cannot be sold – how would I be paid?”

This raises a bigger question: who gets to decide what a piece of art is worth? If not the artist, then surely the buyer – but when one man’s Monet is another’s glorified finger painting, can there really be such a thing as intrinsic artistic value? In a similarly subversive act, Banksy famously shredded his painting ‘Girl with Balloon’ as soon as the hammer fell at auction and the piece sold for £1m. Ironically, this destruction only increased the work’s value – renamed ‘Love is in the Bin’, the piece fetched £18.5m three years later. Even flawed prints can become the most prized of a set, precisely because they offer something the others don’t: uniqueness. Is owning art really about the art itself, or is it about owning something no one else can?

These are the kinds of questions that preoccupy Dylan Kempster-Smyth, an artist influenced by both the work and ethos of Jean-Michel Basquiat. “What defines success as an artist in the modern era?” he asks. “My work isn’t commercial – it’s me. If you like it, you like it. If you don’t, you don’t. I don’t want to create for money’s sake. What’s the true value of my work? If someone is willing to pay thousands, and another only a hundred, who’s right?” He continues to question the link between artistic prestige and financial value. “If a famous art collector bought my work,” he says, “suddenly people would be willing to pay more. But if my friend wanted to buy a painting for sixty pounds, that wouldn’t boost the value of my work at all.” For someone in search of an objective standard – something constant and beyond influence – the question of value, and by extension success, lingers like an echo without resolution.

Dylan’s frustration with the art world crystallised during his time at Central Saint Martins, where he studied for a year before leaving. “In our very first lecture, they said 90% of your time here will be spent networking, 10% working,” he recalled. “It was crazy – basically saying, go out, party, meet people, exhibit… It gave me a glimpse of just how cruel the art world is. Ninety-nine percent of artists don’t make it. Is that just because they don’t know the right people?”

For an artist disillusioned with the commercial system, the most natural response is to find meaning in the process itself – creating for personal satisfaction rather than financial return. “A good artist depicts the world around them in a way that’s true to them,” Dylan asserted. “For me, success is when I finish a painting and I’m happy with it. That’s rare – I often don’t see the beauty in my work until time passes. Then I can come back to it and appreciate what it is, and the headspace I was in when I made it.”

This shift in mindset freed Dylan from chasing conventionally ‘marketable’ art. Instead, he began producing work meant to challenge, provoke, or simply please himself. But that, too, came with complications. “The first critique I got at Central Saint Martins was: ‘Be careful what you create,’” he said. “If you aim to make something people won’t find visually appealing, you’re setting yourself up to fail. You might achieve your goal at first, but as soon as people start buying your work, you’ve just gone against your own principles. So then… have I failed?”

There’s also the question of whether placing value solely in the artist’s perspective is enough. While someone might choose to create purely for themselves and keep their work private, the moment art is made public, it becomes a conversation. “I realised I was contradicting myself,” Dylan reflects. “On the one hand, I’m saying I don’t care what the viewer thinks. But if a writer published a book without considering the reader, it would just be them shouting into the void. There’s no dialogue, no audience – only themselves.” He pauses, then adds, “It made me feel like I was sabotaging myself by being so single-minded.”

If neither the artist nor the audience alone can assign absolute value, maybe the answer lies somewhere between them. Maybe it’s less about ‘exclusivity’ on either side, and more about connection. An artist puts their perception of the world on display and asks the viewer – do you feel this too? “There are so many expressive painters out there – and I connect with their work beyond words,” Dylan says. “It’s that instant feeling of, ‘holy shit, that’s incredible.’ Like you’re feeling what they felt.” Putting a price on that kind of resonance – in one individual, let alone across a wider group – is a near-impossible task. But calling any version of that connection a failure would certainly be wrong.

Instagram: @dksmyth

Words: Flo Balderson

Injecting ink into my body isn’t a new experience, but this time, it felt different right from the start. We kicked things off with a concept meeting, which gave me space to ramble and try to articulate the picture I had in my head. Travis was incredibly patient, staying with me through my long-winded descriptions. 

At one point, I paused mid-blab to realise he’d already mocked up an entire mood board based on everything I’d said. From there, he sent me three different versions of the design, each photoshopped onto my arm so I could get a clear sense of how it would look. It was such a thoughtful detail and it made me feel completely involved in the creative process.

The majority of my previous tattoos have been impulsive, random holiday decisions. But since moving back to Jersey late last year and turning 26, I felt ready to commit to an artist, someone I could trust, and bounce creative ideas off. We quickly bonded over the therapeutic potential of mushrooms and shared some nerdy, deep-dive chats.

When the day finally came, I arrived at the studio, excited but slightly nervous. There is always a bit of pre-tattoo jitters when you are waiting to see something you’ve imagined come to life in such a permanent way. But I felt calm the moment I walked in. Travis greeted me alongside his gorgeous dog, Cyrus, and the space instantly put me at ease. Bright and warm, it was the complete opposite of the stereotypical dark, intimidating studios we all grew up with. No stuffed crows here, just a big pink sofa and lots of herbal tea.

The studio really reflects Travis: calm, kind, and chill. His energy carried into the whole session. I even noticed that he uses recyclable paper for his clinical materials instead of the usual disposables. It’s a small detail, but it shows how much thought he puts into everything, not just the art. As we prepped, we looked at a few stencil sizes together. He gently explained how each one would heal and suggested a size without being pushy. He kept reminding me it was my tattoo, and that I needed to feel happy with it.

Once the stencil was in place and we were both happy, we got started. I lay in a comfy position, and we chatted while he worked. His technique was super gentle, and with numbing cream, I barely felt any pain. The two hours flew by. There is a level of trust that you must have with your artist which is like no other, particularly when the tattoo is important to you.

I chose to have a butterfly tattooed, we decided on a paper kite butterfly, also known as a rice paper butterfly. The paper kite represents metamorphosis and freedom from limiting beliefs or emotional burdens, a reminder that transformation can be peaceful and unhurried. It does not always require struggle. That you are free to fly exactly as you are, in all your authentic beauty.

From start to finish, the whole process has been seamless, I’m already planning more pieces at Seven Tides Tattoo Studio. I couldn’t recommend Travis enough, his professionalism, artistry, and energy make him a brilliant tattooist.

@seventidestattoo / seventidestattoo.com

Every life has moments of mundanity, and I’m sure there are times when Pete Malorey eats the same meal on repeat for a week. However, it’s hard not to recognise how wildly unordinary his everyday life is. Conducting marine biology research has taken him far and wide, adopting a lifestyle and encountering species the rest of us could only dream of. From spending stints with the fastest sharks in the ocean, to learning how to perform surgery on critically endangered species, Pete’s life couldn’t be further from your average nine-to-five.

Between extended marine biology projects in Cyprus, Pete spent a lot of time travelling Fiji. It was a place that stole his heart almost immediately: “I instantly fell in love with the people here because they’re super friendly,” he explained, “and of course, it’s Fiji. The ocean here is beautiful.” His time hopping between islands broadened his mindset and outlook on life. “I made lots of friends here,” he said. “It allowed me to see other perspectives on the world.”

It was through speaking to these friends that Pete discovered the focus of his PhD research. A remote community was struggling with potential fisheries declines and their future livelihoods. “We’d had lots of conversations about fisheries – they were worried that unsustainable fishing methods and climate change were behind the declines.” It was the locals’ need for hands-on research that drew Pete to the project: “I could’ve taken a logistically easier PhD from somewhere less remote,” he reflected. “But I’d so much rather spend four years of my life doing research that is meaningful.” The aim is to find a way to maintain the populations within subsistence fisheries in the area, which locals heavily rely on for food.

Pete’s approach is ecosystem-based, meaning that instead of trying to protect a specific species, he’s monitoring the entire reef. Whilst in the short term this is much more complex, in the long run it will produce the most effective results for the Fijian people. Through collecting tissue samples, scuba diving, analysing reproduction rates and collecting community questionnaires, Pete is gradually figuring out the populations and productivity of the reefs in the area. The aim is to ensure that what’s taken out doesn’t outweigh natural regeneration rates. “It’s all about balancing the needs of people right now, with the needs of future generations,” he said.

The social implications stretch further than balancing intergenerational needs. Around 10% of fishers in Fiji are reportedly female, although the actual figure is likely higher – a hot topic amongst the local community. “There’s a huge movement here revolving around female empowerment, in part, related to fishing,” Pete noted. Women typically rely on the inshore reefs to catch food for their families, which are impacted to a greater extent than the fisheries further out due to their proximity to human settlements.

The reaction to the project among the community has been overwhelmingly positive, even at the initial stages. Pete’s always prioritised collaboration with the Fijian people, seeing this as essential to the long-term success of the project: “It’s been proven time and time again that you have to include the community in the work – it’s pointless and immoral not to.” Before he could start his research, Pete sought approval from the Vanua – a body of chiefs representing the collection of villages across the cluster of islands. “It was obvious I was coming from a genuine perspective of wanting to help the people and the ocean,” Pete recalled, “they respected it, and were quick to give permission.”

It’s a big task to take on alone, and Pete is the only PhD student in the area. “I’d love to bring a masters student with me so that they can collect their own data alongside the project,” Pete explained. “As long as it’s relevant to the local community in some way.” It would open up doors for him in terms of facilitating his research, ensuring he has a partner to keep him safe during dangerous boat trips. “To do it alone would be irresponsible,” Pete said. “I’d never go out that far and for that long without someone with me.”

It’s fair to say that the environment Pete is living in is not for the faint of heart. “There’s very little here,” he explained. “No formal shops, no roads, no cars.” When people want to travel between villages, they either walk, ride horses bareback through the jungle, or pitch in money for fuel to take a small fibreglass boat around the coast. The latter is Pete’s preferred method of transport, to avoid the wrath of the many mosquito species that thrive inland twenty-four seven. “There are different diseases depending on which ones you get bitten by, and I recently just recovered from dengue fever.” Pete laughed: “It was difficult to tell the difference between the effects of the disease and the heatstroke I gave myself out of negligence, but I was bedridden for a week. Dengue fever sucks.”

Amidst the trials, it’s ultimately the support of the Fijian people that keeps Pete going. “It’s a very, very friendly place,” he said, “especially within the iTaukei – the indigenous Fijian – community. The more remote you go, the friendlier the people become.” He told me about a recent trip he took with a friend to visit their mum on one of these remote islands. There wasn’t enough room for three beds inside the house, so she took it upon herself to sleep outside for the six weeks they were there. “It sounds like we put her out,” he laughed, “but she was having none of it. There was no way she was ever going to let us sleep outside.” 

It’s the kind of hospitality that characterises the community in which Pete is undertaking his project. “I’ve been to places where they are pretty hostile towards outsiders who want to live there and do research,” he said. “If there’s one message I want to communicate, it’s the overwhelmingly accepting and friendly nature of the people here.”

Even those unfamiliar with Japanese woodblock prints would recognise Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa. It’s widely regarded as the most famous composition of the ukiyo-e genre – artworks that focus on fleeting beauty and momentary pleasures. Known for their vivid colours and dynamic formations, these artworks typically depict beautiful women, famous actors, and urban pleasures. Hiroshige, considered the last master of the tradition, went against the grain to produce artwork with the same focus as The Great Wave, where the landscape becomes the subject rather than the supporting element.

It was his work that became the basis for Emily Allchurch’s Tokyo Story – a set of twelve prints recently acquired by the British Museum. The collection mirrors Hiroshige’s One Hundred Famous Views of Edo, a renowned series depicting what is now modern-day Tokyo. Continuing her established technique of recreating old prints and paintings through a 21st-century lens, Emily meticulously assembled thousands of her own photographs into digital compositions that converse with the originals. Her collages are peppered with aspects of contemporary life, integrating new landmarks into the views depicted by Hiroshige.

By using photography as a medium, Emily’s work tends to evoke a sense of viewing a place frozen in time – similar to a documentary record. Her prints blur the line between illusion and reality, drawing the viewer into believing in the fictitious space she’s created. “People often say that the work looks three-dimensional, as though they could simply step into the scene,” Emily explained. “It makes the work seem very real and tangible.”

Gathering the media that went into Tokyo Story involved an intensive two weeks travelling around Tokyo and Kyoto, as an observer documenting her impressions of a place. Using Hiroshige’s original prints as her guide, she travelled between his chosen scenes on foot, allowing curiosity to guide her as much as her itinerary. Returning home from Japan with around 10,000 photos, she reorganised and digitally combined them in Adobe Photoshop – collating fragments together into a scene where the present is in conversation with the past.

Each artwork presents a different aspect of Japanese culture. Commenting on her work, Emily revealed that Tokyo Story 5: Cherry Blossom (after Hiroshige) “tells a story of good and bad fortune, with the fleeting beauty of a cherry blossom set against a homeless man that has fallen on hard times.” Tokyo Story 8: Temple (after Hiroshige) “juxtaposes the sacred heritage of the temple grounds with the souvenir shops and fairground rides often found within them.”

The eleventh and twelfth prints were created much later and hold particular significance for Emily. “I made them during the coronavirus lockdown,” she said. “Having the ability to revisit my Japanese image library when we were unable to travel brought me huge creative joy.” Tokyo Story 12: Spring Festival (after Hiroshige) depicts giant carp banners set against Mount Fuji, traditionally flown each May in Japan as a celebration of Children’s Day. It’s a striking piece, currently featured alongside Hiroshige’s originals in the British Museum’s summer exhibition.

The master woodblock prints may have provided the framework for Tokyo Story, but Emily’s series doesn’t shy away from depicting an authentic view of modernity. Don’t be surprised by features such as Metro signs, supermarket chains, and LED advertising. “Just as Hiroshige made reference to people, objects and places that had a social relevance to his audience, I included motifs that can be decoded by a contemporary audience,” Emily noted. Rather than produce a “slavish record,” she prioritised working along the same themes and symbols Hiroshige highlighted: changing seasons, bridges, temples, gardens, and views by night. “Tokyo Story posed the challenge of how to respond to a culture very different from my own, where much of the landscape Hiroshige depicted has changed beyond recognition,” Emily explained. What emerges is a set of prints that embodies the modern day, without sacrificing the structures of the past.