Why I am an Editor

It has been twenty one years since I produced the first Dossier Magazine.

And for forty years I have been making a living with a camera. A hope. And a dream. A passion. Started working officially in 1984, but I worked of my high school career. Afternoon shift.

When I was young, lions roamed the streets, dinosaurs just became extinct - it was a frightening time. Much like now. There was a fear of the Russians. Of the Chinese. Irrational fears bought on by watching American movies in the back seat of my parent’s car while straining to see the screen at the drive-in movie theatre. There was also the doom hanging over my little head that my country was going down the drain, as my country men started something vile called apartheid. My family did everything they could to fight it. My grandfather was once an illustrious Professor but he left six children in the care of his wife to go teach in villages “Up in Africa”. To educate, and fight against the regime.

My father was in awe of this great man. A Kennedy father figure. My father was the youngest, born when his oldest brother was enlisted to fly for the British Army in WW2. Imagine that, a new born and a son in the plane fighting Nazis. What I would give to chat to my gran now. It was also was strange, as the British had put my kin in concentration camps once. My DNA features a long line of fleeing. Protestants fleeing the Catholics to a place on the bottom of a map, and on my mother’s side, a Jew fleeing from oppression in Europe. My family fled from their wine farm in a small town called Roux in the South of France, which explains my love of wine and the all strange things French- as my Facebook feed told me in with the last Olympics. Veritable crazy folk. We are a strange bunch, the Vive les Blues! These line crashing together to make up a strange lil girl as The Stranglers sang. So there I was, the offspring of two magnificent parents, a beauty of a mom who even in the 1960’s went to Mykonos by herself, and a cheeky ad man, who had charisma and no fear.

( My dad's story and his passing has been well documented here, but this is not about him.)

My country’s people did not travel to Europe on holiday. At most they flung kids in a car, and smoked and peeled oranges listening to a radio that lost signal driving up hills, going to a dreary seaside town where the kids would bundle together to look for a non existent spark of life. The dads would come to attention every now and again and pulled kids from the waves, having ingested gallons of sea water. But my family was different. Because of one one thing. The word written on pages. The printing press.

My paternal grandfather studied the Word and C.S. Lewis and the daily newspaper, debating on foreign policy like he was paid for it. Which he was not. He did not worry about pedestrian things such as finances. It must be an intellectual thing, I fear it is also hereditory. On the maternal side, the grandfather was a sales man of magazines and books. A massive blessing for my mother, as she was an only child not fussed about friends, but a head fuelled by adventures of travels to far off places. Like the Sahara. Her doll-like looks did however catch eyes, as it did with the firecracker that was my dad. Now here I am. In the universal luck of the DNA draw, my mom had me, called her mine (Mia) and we traveled together happily until she travelled beyond. The moment the Doctor told my mom she had to be tied to machines, she said Au Dieu and got on the next train. There was absolutely no point being here if one can’t travel. But my point being, my granddad left piles of magazines for my mom each week to devour. From French to American. The smell of magazines - an opioid of my kin. It fueled the wanderlust, and the endless adoration we felt for the written word and of imagery, and that kept both my parents going until their last days on the blue planet.

I was born, I crawled and then started paging through magazines. I did not like what I saw in my daily life. So like my mom, I turned to the pages of magazines instead. It became such a big addiction that every month I had to buy 20 or more different International titles, which yes, if you are living in NYC might be considered the norm, but I was living on a farm. It was not the norm. The September issue, arrived in December.

But my childhood was at once lonely and exciting. Due to the fact that my dad had some hippie idea in him which made him decide that we should live on a farm where his friends and himself could throw 70’s pool parties and play tennis all weekend followed by Campari’s and arguments. That was exciting. A whole lot of naked adults jumping in a pool, that was interesting. But I was far from friends. I did not have suburbia to traul around in. Instead, in the week, after school, as the farm was far from school, I became the office kid in a Mad Men ad agency while my parents made iconic ads. The offices smelled of stale cigarettes and Revlon fragrances worn by secretaries - that’s what they were called- with short dresses and penchant for taking their clothes off in the photographic studio run by my uncle. He was the best photographer in town, the Bee Gees fourth brother who bought home interesting women home for me to chat to. An Air hostess who tried to give me lessons in style, bohemian ladies who curled up with smokes and wine and liked my drawings. He also lived on the farm, in a house filled with photographic books, which I worked thru every holiday. I would sneak into his house, which my brother did too but for the Playboys which was illegal at the time. I would stare at black and white photographic work and my mind was blown. An eight year old with a love for black and white prints.

I told my dad I was not going to fill his illustrious boots by going into advertising. The process of pitches and the constant fear hanging in the air of losing a client scared me. No, my dream was run in the streets like a Warhol come Bruce Webber type photographing Japanese fashion on cool models - after which we go for coffee and chat about the books and the music we were listening to then go to Indie movies.

Yeah, well there was some issues with my dream. Lots of issues. I was a female in the 80’s. It was not common in my country to want to do black and white fashion photos for magazines. I was one of maybe six female photographers in the country, quoting against men with big egos. Then I found myself a single mom of two babies in still in diapers. I was only armed with a camera and some lights. I had to raise good kids. And pay for stuff.

So for the next few decades I photographed whatever I was asked to. I did not discriminate, I was not too cool for cakes, lots of cakes, for fried chicken, man, did I shoot a lot of fried chicken. Fast food to restaurants, cook books to magazine recipes. Celebs to cars. If it paid, I shot it. Over weekends. Over Christmas. I was a diligent single mom, and a diligent worker. I do not care to show you those images but a million photos were taken. That is why I show you these photos I have done instead.

But I hankered after the magazine world. I was not classified as a cool kid in the industry - I did not party, I stayed at home building Lego at night, I did not give powder out at my studio, I was playing in the sand with toy trucks. I was not cool. And yes, I am still not. I was never given an assignment by my local Elle, Marie Claire or Grazia. I was never booked for fashion. Strangely none of those titles still exist in my country.

So I told my mom my plan. I have this name for a magazine, I told her. We were in a little town called Fez. This was just after 9/11… it took days to get there. This area was unfrequented by Westerners. My eyes were swollen shut from allergies from the donkeys and camels in the passages of the villages, the Souks. Once we were in the Riad, after a long tiring day on the road, I told her of my plan. I wanted to start a magazine. The name was Dossier. It means a file -a fashion file, a beauty file, a travel file. My mom loved the idea. After all she an adventurous spirit in her. She said I must do it. (I did register the name in Africa but did not do so Internationally, but I do not care, it is a great name, and it came from my dreams)

So I picked up my Canon. As you see in these photos. I told my friends we were doing a magazine and announced it to clients and the resounding feedback was … I am insane. I thought I had one chance with the first issue. I poured my soul into it. Twenty one years later, the resounding feeling is that it is still an insane idea and clients say now, what they did then: “Place this ad for free, and we will support your next issue”. For twenty one years, you all! And I still do it.

Has it been worth it? When print was still very respected, I was taken for a ride by four investors. Having a magazine was seen as prestigious, and it interested conmen. One was a government man, he is now in jail. One was from the most prominent families in Africa. Actually two, now that I think of it. One fled to the UK. Am I a bad business woman? Hell yes, I will do anything it takes to get a mag to the printers. I have been given so much negative feedback, that I have landed in Clinics. Tired. Spent. But I get up.

I always get up.

I have been burnt, I have been stabbed in the back so many times that I have lost feeling. So many “friendships” have been lost along the way, because this business is not about making money. It is only about passion. And I realise too, passion does not pay the rent. Print magazine gets a bad rap for not making talent rich. But it has never been about that. It has always been about playing to make images, which will get the attention of advertisers who will book you for paying jobs. Ask Kate Moss. Ask Linda and Cindy. It is not about the money. It is about getting respect, and that should lead to financial gain. Or not. I will let you know one day.

After all these years in the industry, I am now selling the on-line and print concept to people that I once had to babysit. I am being asked what I do, why I do it, and what benefit I am offering clients. For the so “many-th” time. But this is a glimpse into why I am the Editor of a magazine.

My Canon camera and this title has taken me to all the countries I have wanted to see. I have tirelessly promoted brands without gain, because of the love of an image. The adoration of craft, and people tirelessly creating. And it is an honour.

As long as I have breath in me I will try to inspire with images. I do not promote my own images. I do not promote myself, and I am not on the hot list at any event. But a magazine’s purpose is what it has always been - make people see things differently. To promote the few that can see the world in a new way. For those that will eat baked beans to make beauty. Like so many artists have over the decades. Images are forever.