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Milk and Cookies
Words and photos by Chris Swainston chris@slugmag.com
Blazing back disaster on three
feet of brick vert, Dirk Hogan
Taking flight under flaming
skies. Backside flip, Bobbo.
Let’s flash back momentarily to a childhood nostalgic memory
of tree houses, cardboard castles and forts built of scrap wood
hidden in the thicket of an undeveloped field. It was a secret place
with a secret password to get in. Not just any chump on a BMX
bike could enter. You had to be in the crew for the privilege to
venture inside. Places like this were a fantasia for my imagination
to run wild, battling dragons, fabricating weapons out of sticks and
stones, hunting small birds and sneaking through the tall grass to
spy on the old angry landowner. It was an impenetrable fortress,
an oasis of delectation and I was the king. Now let’s fast forward
some 15 or so years. I’m 25 and supposed to be at the helm of
adulthood. Another well-oiled cog in mother culture’s machine settling
in, creating a nest and planting my homologous seed to carry
on my lackluster legacy—but I’m not. I’m still holding on to a life of
disport. Running in the streets with dirty hands and a bloodstained
shirt causing a ruckus and loitering where I please. My imagination
still runs rapid with creativity, only it’s no longer sticks and stones
that I’m playing with, but ramps and rails. The clubhouse is still
here—only it’s a bit more refined now and no longer hidden in the
thicket. It’s nestled north of the city alongside an airstrip inside a
garage built for airplanes and helicopters. I’m no longer the king of
this castle, simply a convivial member. The keeper of this kingdom
is Spencer England and behind the hanger doors lay the formations
of his imagination, coined ‘Milk and Cookies.’
“lounge out on the leather couches and
watch a skate video for inspiration.”
slugmag.com (15)