iiii Magazine is an independent arts and culture publication, based in London and Manchester. We talk about culture in the sense suggested by Francis Bacon, when he said of intellectual enrichment: 'the culture and manurance of minds’. Our approach to culture is the same: that something bright and engaging may be derived from detritus. We love cultural ephemera in particular, and despite Bacon’s near-perfect turn of phrase, it is the position of the magazine that it is not sufficient. We publish articles that stretch our assumptions of what culture can be, so long as they are forged with originality.
We place no limits on subject matter or form — we have published incisive criticism, personal essays and memoirs, humour pieces and odes to oddities — but we take as a guiding principle this from Flann O’Brien’s The Third Policeman (1967):
‘Always ask any questions that are to be asked […] Turn everything you hear to your own advantage. Always carry a repair outfit. Take left turns as much as possible. Never apply your front brake first’.
¶ Visit Our Shop
Support the magazine by visiting our SHOP.
~ With the help of Studio Hyte, we created a football (scarf) with no crest, no local, nor national allegiance — a garment that challenges the ugly attitudes that alienate so many from the beautiful game.
~ As well as looking fresh, your (scarf) is also doing its bit to address the aforementioned issues, with 10% of all profits raised donated to LGBT charity Stonewall (Charity number: 1101255)
¶ Work With Us
iiii Magazine is a non-profit organisation, and our modest team of editors, reporters, and social scribes work on a voluntary basis. We do have plans to address this in the future. As it is we are looking for a creative, driven individual to join the team, to help shape future editions. If you would like to work for iiii Magazine, do send a CV and a cover letter outlining the sort of role you would like to take to firstname.lastname@example.org. We will do our best to get back to you quickly.
¶ Forthcoming Editions
A Publication by iiii Magazine: A look at football culture through twenty classic kits
(crest) is a book that entwines history, design, and football culture to enliven debate about belonging — both local and national — in a fractious British and European moment. Classic football kits are artefacts highly sought after by collectors and fans alike. Is this a question of design, of a club’s success, or of nostalgia? Can it be all or none of these things? In twenty short essays by twenty writers, (crest) charts the peculiar histories of each of the 2018/19 Premier League football clubs through the lens of a prized classic kit from the past decades. The book takes football seriously at its root, and looks at how larger forces drive the sense of allegiance of football-loving individuals — what hidden personal stories make the Beautiful Game beautiful when it can seem so ugly?
Produced by iiii Magazine, (crest) will feature quality photography and minimalist design. iiii encourages deep and engaged archival research, as well as idiosyncratic and strange personal stories. Whatever the mode or the form, iiii Magazine is committed to providing generous editorial support to writers.
The online publication continues all year round, and publishes articles in three broad categories:
- Esoterica and funny writing [the stranger, more parochial, the better]
- Long-form interviews and features
- The 500 [react, respond in 500 words to an artefact, a lyric, a piece of punctuation, anything]
If your text does not fit into one of the above categories, don't fret, we just need a pitch. Please send a query or an extract from your text to email@example.com with SUBMISSION in the subject line. Work should be previously unpublished; but we will consider work under consideration elsewhere if you let us know. We are run by a team of volunteers, and thus we are unfortunately not yet in a position to offer a fee.
Please provide a short author’s bio-line which will be published under your piece. 'Algenon Overling is a fictional writer based in 12th Century Denmark. He likes to relax with his kestrel and his crossbow. Good with kids’.
Please defer to the short style guide. It not only saves on editorial nit-picking, but illustrates commitment to the publication.
- Oxford commas, yes. In lists of three or more things, include a comma between the final two, before the ‘and’ (Manchester, Leeds, and London).
- Titles of books, films, exhibitions italicised. Titles of artworks ‘Like This’ (2018).
- One space after full-stops. Always.
- ‘Use single quotation marks “except for quotes within quotes” at all times’.
- Include spaces before and after em-dashes. (I wouldn’t — but for in unlikely circumstances — consider a teacake).
- Dates: 5 May 2016 / Decades: 1980s.
- Special formatting requirements are difficult to manage on an optimised website, but we will always try to meet a writer’s needs.
Zoe Williams's ‘Sunday Fantasy'
at Mimosa House
Wedding cakes are grotesque. Like little headless brides, perversely they are useless until cut into. Guests flock to watch the newlyweds make an incision and open her up from top to bottom. They gawp and salivate and applaud. Then they devour her. The cake is the butt of many proverbs, similes, and metaphors. How to say this thing was easy. How to make fractions. How to furnish a completed task. You may not eat your cake and have it, too (which, I insist, is surely the correct way round). Beat eggs with cream, caster sugar, and flour until silky, pour into its mould and bake until the mixture rises; use it, for your own ends, to illustrate Marie Antoinette’s detachment from the breadless poor; use it, once a year, to symbolise the day on which we should celebrate your emergence into the world; use it, as Wayne Thiebaud did, to mourn the evenly distributed Neapolitan stripes within all things: that we are more predictably ordered than we care to admit.
I came to know the work of artist Zoe Williams through her cake sculpture Village Baroque (2016) shown at the Austrian Cultural Forum. A part-collapsed nightmare, it sops into its base like the head of Robocop’s Emil Antonowsky after crashing into a vat of toxic waste. Its polyp-pocked facade conceals a cholesterol-like lining of buttercream, and you can imagine the thing smeared across the face of some niece or nephew snoozing on the lapel of their adoring father. It’s a cake of bourgeois excess, insipid sweetness, and waste. Cake walks also into Williams’s most recent exhibition at Mimosa House in Mayfair entitled ‘Sunday Fantasy’, a film produced in collaboration with filmmaker Amy Gwatkin, and artists Deniz Unal, and Nadja Voorham. It’s there in the burbling ceramics that festoon the scene, gnarled like hardened infauna on the seafloor; it’s there gorged by a subject in a leather jacket and purple wig, interpolated by shots of ants scaling a stone wall; it’s there in the palette, with peardrop pink and eyeball white, overlaid with a seagreen rot.
‘How does desire work and who is allowed to wield it?’ is the question posed through the film’s central conceit: an ancient vial that contains a potion which, when drunk, materialises fantasies. So as we are led into this Astral wooziness, each of the subjects lives out her own fantasy. The first is a colouring-in of a pair of buttocks with smacks, scratches, and bites, “I will have to think about which mark I will leave first”, says our fantasist, faced with a roseate arse on a massage table. Again, cake-like, it is pert like jelly flan, and teeters through a hole cut in a satin sheet. Between each of the subjects’ various tumbles comes a recurring shot of tanked eels, calligraphic against a cerulean tableau. Chosen to embody the phobia of Deniz Unal, the eel is a good choice for these slippery interstitials: the creature’s powers of metamorphosis — from larva to glass eel to elver to silver eel — drive its adaptation from one environment (saltwater) to its opposite (fresh) and back. Desire, too, takes on contradictory forms: flashes with electricity or else is shocked: erotic control may be maintained or relinquished, dangerous or susceptible, upright or prostrate. As Williams takes on this complicated impulse in her queered story, she bottles within her protagonist's vial the frustrations involved in a woman realising her desires.
In one episode: patent leather gloves finger their way over bare collarbones as she sits in the passenger seat. For thrillers, it’s a familiar scene. In the blueblack of those gloves is the night sky of every early morning disappearance, every stalker’s indulged self-entitlement, the predatory void in Jonathan Glazer’s film Under the Skin in which the extraterrestrial (Scarlett Johansson) secretes and ingests her victims. Portrayed with a startling coldness by Johansson, the creature’s victims are more like battery hens than trophies, and tellingly it is to cake that Glazer turns to symbolise her disinterest. Unable to savour her exploits, the cake makes her retch and she spits it out as soon as it enters her mouth. The alien’s true form, an absent black figure, smooth as cherry, is revealed only when she is molested, her skin, her security, her identity, ripped away from her. Several of the episodes in ‘Sunday Fantasy’ involve similarly featureless, or else totally disembodied, limbs — particularly hands, whether begloved or painted green. Attention is therefore more expediently drawn to the architects, the women themselves, but I wonder whether the preemptive disembodiment (of the buttocks, of the patent leather gloves, of the massaging hands in another episode) is to dissect into components, to distinguish the desirable from desire itself. In other words: to be both creator and subject of these fantasy worlds: to both eat and have one’s cake.