When I came up with the idea of this magazine back in February, it was to simply put something physical into the world that showcased a few of my friends’ photographic work. I had a bit more time on my hands when the virus first spiked in South Korea and I had just started working remotely from home. As a teacher who is typically one of the last people to leave the building during the school year in normal circumstances, I found great freedom in working from home and the breaks I took felt like they really disconnected me from my work. It felt like I finally had the time and the mental energy to embark on a new project.
Initially, I used that time to start sketching and brainstorming what this zine would be and look like. I wanted the timeline to be free of unnecessary extraneous hurdles and I wanted it to be achievable in what I thought would be a relatively short amount of time. Even at the start, I already wanted the project finished. However, I had a few non-negotiables in terms of a final product. It had to feel like a substantial final product. It had to be a product that the photographers involved would be proud of. Lastly, it had to be something that focused on and felt true to the work of all of those involved. It had to be done with integrity.
It had to feel like a substantial final product. It had to be a product that the photographers involved would be proud of. Lastly, it had to be something that focused on and felt true to the work of all of those involved. It had to be done with integrity.
As they say, anything that is worth doing, will take time. Not long after, I found myself engulfed in the process of tailoring the finer of details of which I swore I wouldn’t mull over when I first started the project. But I quickly began to realize that things that are worth doing will take time, and in that time, you should appreciate the journey just as much as and if not more than the destination.
I would like to thank Ryan for getting on board with me for this project. Working with your best friend can be a challenge, but it’s one of the most rewarding experiences throughout the creation of this zine. I appreciate the honesty and the challenges that come along with such a relationship. At times, working with someone who knows you so well can be extremely validating, but it also provides a necessary pause and outside perspective that is invaluable when making a final product that is being created with others’ work and is intended for a wider, diverse audience.
Whether they are visual or conceptual, this first issue is full of flaws. I would be very hesitant to call them mistakes, but rather a set of prompts that call for us to do better next time and to be more conscious of how and why we are making the decisions we do and improve accordingly. Alas, we are happy that this thing we have created is real and we are grateful that it has made it to your hands. I hope that while we have your attention, that this zine provides a space to appreciate the experiences and photographic work of others who carry a film camera to capture the world around them.
Details:
A4 Size
Cover: Luxury Rendezvous Ultra White 240g with Matte Coating
Pages: Luxury Rendezvous Ultra White 160g Matte
Perfect Bound
118 Pages
Photographers: Zhou HanShun, Roman Permiakov, Fred Mitchell, Ryan Berger, Kyle Horton, Letao Tao, Dylan Barnes, Michael Ivnitsky, Alexander Donalson, Victor Norgren
Ordering: You may pick up a copy at the following stockists or order your copy online now at www.overunder.dev/
From July 12th to July 18th, me and my buddy Don toured the length of the Korean peninsula from our southern hometown of Busan to the northern metropolis of Seoul along what is known as the 4 Rivers Trail. Over the course of a little over six days, three of which included riding in the pouring rain with the rest in the hot sun, we trekked mostly-paved terrain to see parts of Korea you could only see on two wheels.
All images taken on a Canon WP-1 with Kodak Portra 400.
“You end up exhausted and spent, but later, in retrospect, you realize what it all was for. The parts fall into place, and you can see the whole picture and finally understand the role each individual part plays. The dawn comes, the sky grows light, and the colors and shapes of the roofs of houses, which you could only glimpse vaguely before, come into focus.”
Haruki Murakami | What I Think About When I Think About Running
In the two years that I have worked abroad, I have already made a handful of friendships that I truly value. Almost all the of the people I work with are far from the places that they used to or still call home, but despite the diverse backgrounds we possess, we all share the fact that we are in the same place at the same time. Right here and right now.
I have learned that my coworkers have and will continue to become my closest friends because we share so much of the same experience by just being “here”, where ever that may be. Eventually though, some, most, or all of us will eventually move on to bigger and better things and when we do, we all have to say goodbye.
I feel like there’s something different about when people leave here (a school abroad), though. Back home in the states, teachers leave schools perhaps just as often, but they usually go to another school or another district. It never seems to be too far away. Nevertheless, you will still see them around town from time to time. But here, things feel a bit heavier and with a little bit more potential to be final. I think it’s because that after you say your last goodbyes in person, there’s a bit more uncertainty as to when or if you will meet again. It feels like there’s a slight tension underneath those warm hugs goodbye where both people know that there is a possibility that it might be the last time you see each other. Your transient lives could allow you to meet again just as much as they could draw you apart forever. But for all the time you spent together and memories you shared up to that moment, you appreciate them that much more and you say “This isn’t a goodbye, it’s a ‘See you later.’”
This year, quite a few more teachers will be leaving compared to last year. It feels different this time, partly because of the number of people leaving, but also because of a few other reasons. An easy goodbye with tapered emotions was railed off by Corona Virus and distance learning, but a handful the people leaving this year are also a core part of my social and professional circles, making it feel like a substantial portion of the group’s personality will be missing.
One of those people who are leaving is Meghan. She speaks her mind and says the things that everyone is thinking, but they might not be brave enough to say. She is someone that has made me more conscious and aware of my circumstances and my actions, and how the two may affect one another as well as the perspectives and experiences of others around me. I thank her for that.
After seven years at our school, she is moving to embark on a new professional and personal journey. To bring some closure to her time here, we got together for some portraits to close her chapter on her time in Korea.
Lastly, Megs left some words to accompany the photos:
I’ve been sitting on this news for months—it’s never felt like a good time, and I am not sure when it will feel like a good time again, but I get on a plane in a week, so here we go: After seven years, I’m leaving Korea. I keep trying to write about this, but then I realized I already had—in my personal statement that is part of what helped me land my new job at a new-to-me international school in a new-to-me region. Here’s part of it:
It was in college, studying literature, where I learned to distinguish between the notion of place and an actual, physical location. The exploration of the way in which a location becomes a place—the catalyst for which American artist, author, and teacher Alan Gussow identified as “the process of experiencing deeply”—drove my twin passions: literature and teaching. I began to think of both as meeting points—vehicles to connect to varied human experiences.
Both international teaching and my love of literature have given me the opportunity to examine my own narrative and deepen my understanding of myself, my home, and my place in the world. Both require similar skills: uncovering the argument behind a story; exploring intertextuality; and leaving home, if only in our minds.
I will miss the home that Korea has become over the past seven years; I have experienced deeply. And I am ready to do it again. Moving will be unfamiliar at first, but I have gone through the process of transforming a new place into a home before. I welcome the redefining and examining of myself that I know will be part of leaving a familiar place. But I also know that when I leave this place, I will take a little part of it with me. And leave a little bit of myself here.
…
Needless to say, I didn’t anticipate a pandemic in thinking about the last chapter of my time here. And it has not been easy; this is not the ending I wanted. But Dan Savage always says that closure is something you give yourself. This tattoo is part of the gift of closure: to honor my time and experience here, the young woman I was when I got here, the woman I am today, and all the variations in between.
Like many people who choose to live outside their homeland, I use the word home to denote a feeling, not a particular location. In Korea, I say I am going home when I travel to Montana. I call San Francisco, California—where I have never actually lived, but have visited extensively—home. And when I am in Montana, I use the word home to refer to Korea. But this was not always the case.
Before I moved to Korea, I had only lived in Montana: a vast, beautiful, rugged, sparsely-inhabited state in the northwestern United States, largely unacquainted with diversity. After graduating high school, I moved to Missoula to attend the University of Montana and found myself surrounded by people whose home was not my home. And yet, as the years progressed and friendships formed, we all developed a familiar relationship with Missoula and each other; my home was redefined.
It was also in college, studying literature, where I was finally able to articulate my kinship with Montana: I learned to distinguish between the notion of place and an actual, physical location. The exploration of the way in which a location becomes a place—the catalyst for which American artist, author, and teacher Alan Gussow identified as “the process of experiencing deeply”—drove my twin passions: literature and teaching. I began to think of both as meeting points, vehicles to connect to varied human experiences.
After graduating and then working as a substitute, I took the leap to teach internationally. Growing up, I had traveled only regionally; moving to Korea, having never set foot on the Asian continent, radically redefined what and where I called home. It was in Korea that I began to understand that in the States, I’m a Montanan; in the world, I’m an American. This new emphasis on my Americanness led me to examine the legacy of my home: I had to rethink many of the values, norms, and beliefs that I learned as defaults; I had to examine the things I thought I knew and decide if I wanted to keep or redefine them.
Both international teaching and my love of literature have given me the opportunity to examine my own narrative and deepen my understanding of myself, my home, and my place in the world. Both require similar skills: uncovering the argument behind a story; exploring intertextuality; and leaving home, if only in our minds. The role of texts—their ability to allow us to step into the home of another—as the impetus to redefine and reimagine the self has become the heart of my teaching philosophy. I encourage and support students as they explore and deepen their understanding of themselves and the world around them so that they may go forth, embrace the unknown, and cultivate satisfying lives as globally-minded citizens focused on bettering their home—however they choose to define it.
I will miss the home that Korea has become over the past six years. I have experienced deeply. I have redefined my home and myself. And I am ready to do it again. Moving will be unfamiliar at first, but I have gone through the process of transforming a new place into a home before. I welcome the redefining and examining of myself that I know will be part of leaving a familiar place—a home. But I also know that when I leave this place, I will take a little part of it with me. And leave a little bit of myself here.
– Megs
All images taken on a Mamiya 645 Pro TL w/ 80mm 2.8 on Portra 400.
Like many others during this very odd and unique time, I have been looking for ways to be productive with my time. With the extra time spent at home, I have finally had a chance to create some sort of vision for an analog photography zine. While there are many details to be hashed out, I believe I have planned out enough to get the ball rolling and can figure out the rest along the way. Even if there is only a single issue created out of this, I believe that the process will be worth it. The goal is to simply get the idea out of my head and into the world.
I am excited to get this project started and contribute to the analog photography community in a meaningful way, giving a platform and a voice to those who utilize the medium to create images with substance and authenticity.
The first issue of the Now Developing zine will feature 12-15 analog photographers worldwide. An open call for entries is now live and the rules and guidelines to submit your work can be found here.
dylan barnes | blog 