Chikaboo Designs is a newly-established small press publisher founded and run by Natasha Natarajan. A writer, cartoonist and artist myself I am passionate about zines and keen to bring creatives together to embark on artistic adventures through publishing. I am committed to cultivating a wholesome creative process with artists and publishing work that deals with our common humanity. I am particularly interested in work that is intimate, vulnerable and very honest.
by Popea Salisbury
Published May 2020
A debut zine from artist Popea Salisbury exploring the anxiety, hope, joy and sadness of love and modern dating through heartfelt prose and poetry.
With a unique stream of consciousness writing style, Popea takes us on a journey of her memories and reflections as she tells the story of 9 men she’s been with. The pages are interspersed with beautiful watercolour pieces bringing softness and a moment of reflection to her heart-wrenching writing.
Her emotional honesty and expressive prose will leave you deeply moved and reminiscing about your own experiences. I can’t recommend this beautiful and insightful zine enough. A must-read for anyone interested in per-zines and previous publications Female Friendly Porn + The Girl Who Cried Love.
Read more about Popea here.
Popea Salisbury is a visual artist born and bred in South-East London. She is currently completing a Foundation Diploma at Camberwell College of Arts and will start a BA in Fine Art at Brighton University in September 2020. Popea’s work explores relationships, intimacy and identity. She is interested in manipulating imagery to subvert convention and context. She also uses verse and poetry to investigate the universal emotions of anxiety, hope, joy and sadness that come with the tricky package of love and modern dating. She has a growing interest in socially engaged projects, and aims to work within her local community to make fine art accessible and enjoyable for other working class people.
I closed my notebook and sat in the cafe thinking about real time. Is it time uninterrupted? Only the present comprehended? Are our thoughts nothing but passing trains, no stops, devoid of dimension, whizzing by massive posters with repeating images? Catching a fragment from a window seat, yet another fragment from the next identical frame? If I write in the present yet digress is that real time? Real time, I reasoned, cannot be divided into sections like numbers on the face of a clock. If I write about the past as I simultaneously dwell in the present, am I still in real time? Perhaps there is no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory.