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A revolutionary action within culture cannot have as its aim to be the expression or analysis of life; it must aim at lifes expansion. Misery must be pushed back everywhere. Guy Debord The European Avant-Garde set a precedent for art as a force to transform the cultural and social landscape. It was seen by some as a break out agent attempting to shift the dominant powers that had ravaged the continental landscape during the First World War. Almost 100 years later, art has become synonymous with selling, consumption and the market. Questions need to be raised about how art practice can reclaim and challenge prevailing powers, without being echoed by the capitalist mainstream. Art, it feels, has lost its radical edge. The exhibition Radicals and Non-Conformists at Londons National Portrait Gallery curated by TBC founder Beverley Bennett, showcased work inspired by radicals in the 19th Century. Further work was produced for the previous issue of 12-pages. It still remains elusive whether art today has the capability or desire to challenge the society it is inhabiting. The theme for Altered States arose from a reading of Gene Rays essay Avant-Gardes and Anti-Capitalist Vector published in Third Text, May 2007. In the article Ray sets out various revolutionary hypotheses derived from the theoretical. The overall impression is that art has to develop an ability to be: nomadic (in reference to Deleuze and Guttari), uncompromising and unaware of its own significance. The importance of art in culture, Ray claims, is stopping art practice from becoming Avant-Garde once more. Art needs to escape. Revolutionary actions are not to be uncovered exclusively in the atelier of the contemporary practitioner. Instead, suggestions for the living artist are to look beyond the discipline of art, look toward revolutions in science and medicine, creativity in protest and transgressive lifestyles, still hidden and being newly formed. Not much different from the approaches of the now canonised Andr Breton, Alexander Rodchenko, Claude Cahun and Marcel Duchamp. How we now navigate through these ideas in a post-post modern world seems heavy laden with social responsibility. Almost so heavy in fact, it could lead to a creative block. A breaking free needs to be started off small, like the woman in the Netherlands who escaped from prison by digging a hole with a spoon. The Altered States brief simply asked contributors to consider art as a catalyst for change. It was important that these ideas were considered in the widest possible sense, to bring a sense of plurality to a changed state. As we know too well, the drive for a reformed state in Europe post WW1 lead to in Germany, Italy and Spain the spectre of Fascism and in the East of Europe the steel face of Communism. Such extremes of belief today seem less significant in the age of Web 2.0, where multiple states of exchange between individuals can seemingly co-exist. As 12-pages editorial remit is to create a discourse around contemporary drawing practice and its definition, the featured outcomes additionally challenge the drawing in some way.

Beverley Bennetts submission moves across two mediums, from paper and then onto film. This cross media approach was a newly realised working process and has produced a thoughtful response to the brief. Inspired by the cultural changes brought about by the advent of digital media and the ownership of information, the drawn space tilts and rotates on its axis through the publication. In the film these page like shapes are blown across the studio and left to lie on the ground in an uncurated and per chance way. Paul Mendez submitted a revised edition of work that appeared in the first publication of 12-pages. The altered and renewed text brings a reviewed insight into the relationship of the protagonist with his older, male lover. The views expressed of the older mans behaviour are set against historical references to painting and seemingly archaic attitudes towards sexualised young men. There appears to be a blurring between whether these attitudes are in the present or in the archive. This referencing of art and painting in the text brings an ethical and social layer to drawing practice. Charley Peters practice is concerned with the translation of digital and analogue images into the drawn space. In the exhibition Delineaton: Contemporary Dialogues with Drawing, Peters took images of children from the Internet and enlarged them until they became pixelated and distorted. She then hand rendered them onto 2 metre high sections of paper. For Altered States she has submitted DS329-1/DS9-5 (2011) hazard tape on canvas. The title quotes the pantone colour

references of the yellow and black in the tape. Removed from its original signifying context the tape has been used to make marks, instead of warning of imminent danger. This removal of signifier through drawing practice gives an engaged process based response. Laura Davidson (editor of the issue) has presented work that deals with the relationship between the actual and the virtual. A rough amalgamation of research carried out during the LulzSec hacking reign is depicted using QR codes. Choosing to look into Rays manifesto, I wanted to research a transgressive nomadic group altering the fabric of society in some way. The access to the Internet is widely understood to be for all who can afford the technology. However access to its stored information and coding, is only for the select few. By performing what are considered to be basic and simple SQL injection hacks, faceless hacker collective LulzSec managed to strike fear into otherwise unflappable corporations and organisations. QR codes seemed an appropriate way to display the information in a publication considering drawing practice, with their random, monochrome and abstract compositions. It seems fitting that Altered States heralds a new beginning in the format of 12-pages publishing. TBC will no longer produce an issue to a tight monthly deadline. Instead we have elected to curate issues over a longer time frame, allowing for more ambitious collaborations to take seed.





It is a glorious day. The early mist and fog have given way to beautiful sunshine, the faintest of breezes and a clear sky. Even at this altitude Im sitting outside in a T-shirt. The birds are showing off their vocal gymnastic routines and praising the Lord for their harvest. I wish I knew the names of all the birds and their songs, and all the flowers. Luciens been trying to teach me the names, in English as well as French, of all the vegetables and herbs he has growing in his garden. It is strange because here, at eight hundred metres, some of the trees are yet even to bud whereas it could be mid-June in the bright green lower valleys. In some spots, the dandelions are so pervasive as to resemble fields of rapeseed. The sky is a pale blue, but when I look above the rim of my sunglasses it approaches a lurid turquoise; the tulips turn from burnt orange to scarlet. Just to confuse me, Lucien puts on some weird Indian sitar music. Annoyingly, my hay fever-prone nose wont stop running.

Lucien and I talked about our childhoods last night. He asked me if I thought my parents loved me. My mother would get very defensive if I asked. What kind of question is that? Shed kiss her teeth and give me the side-eye. Of course they love me. Im the eldest and so had to be sacrificed a few times, thats all. He wouldnt know. Hes the third, albeit the eldest son. His family is very conservative and hes the only one that went off the rails, but hes the apple of their eyes now. Theyre always down here, taking over, bringing their entire wine cellar and hosting four-hour lunches. They were meant to be staying here now, but Im glad theyre not. They dont speak a word of English between them and my French is Del Boy so it can be tedious, particularly as Lucien refuses to translate for me, although he doesnt seem to have a problem mistranslating me for them. But seeing him with his parents does give me a bit of hope. He tells me they like me,

although they were shocked when they found out about me. They dont know everything, of course. Lucien paints young male nudes as part of his art practice. Hes been called a paedophile, and of course his parents werent big fans, particularly as he was so arrogant about it. He thinks of himself as a modern-day Caravaggio, capturing the forbidden and forgotten beauty of male youth. Photographing boys or girls below a certain age for the purpose of dissemination is of course illegal, but to make illegal an artists subject is to take away his freedom of expression, which is a matter of ethics. Can an artist be silenced? A true artist will always find a means of being able to say what he wants, which begs the question, if there is an alternative means of expression, why not use that? Why necessarily always go the narrow and treacherous route? He was once involved in a court case in Paris where the parents of a twelve year-old boy tried to prosecute Lucien for coercion and grooming with intent to abuse their son. However, so powerful was the boys display of witness-stand precocity that the jury eventually decided him mature, perceptive and insightful enough to effectively self-govern, in light of no physical interaction having taken place. In any case, the kid approached Lucien in the first instance and so acquitted the elder of any wrongdoing with regards to coercion or grooming. Lucien tried to safeguard himself by suggesting the boy pose in ballet clothing, but the boy actually insisted he pose nude on a plinth. The parents and all the papers pointed to the boys defence of Lucien as evidence of grooming in itself. Lucien

of course didnt touch him at the time but the fact that they began a sexual relationship once the boy had become of age meant that the matter had never been allowed to lie, either. Ive seen studies and photographs of the painting, and of the boy, who became a muse and collaborator, at various ages. He was very beautiful, and of course the rigorous documentation of the entire project became an important work of art in itself. From the beginning until the end it was a collaboration between two artists, but most people found it unacceptable. Poor Lucien. If only hed been born in the 17th century rather than the 20th. He would probably have been a great Christian artist, and could have painted cherubic little boys until his heart was content. Now, no one in France will give him a show; besides, over time he seems to have become more of a subject and less of an artist. Now he prefers to think, and inspire, rather than do. Later on we will have lunch and then go back into the garden to continue the weeding and cleaning of the flowerbeds, the sort of cathartically intricate work I prefer to such plodding, exhausting tasks as raking mown grass or moving piles of soil. The sitar music has finished, and the breeze has picked up quite considerably in the last few minutes, which will be handy when we are hot from gardening work later but is making a cardigan necessary for now. The few clouds in the sky are passing, and there is little to come other than a few scrappy little slips on the horizon.



Its raining, persistently. Today was meant to be the best day of the week, the hottest and the sunniest, but Ill be damned if Im going out there to weed on my knees in the mud. Switch a fan off and it will continue for a few moments to whirr. Switch it back on again and it will take its time to get back to full speed. This is what its like being displaced from London to rural France, and back again. For the first day or two in France Im still in my London stress, and for the first day or two back in London, I am relaxed and languid when I really should be hitting the ground running. I dont know how Lucien does it, five weeks here, one week there. Well actually, he doesnt really do much other than potter about and answer emails. I shall do the washing up, la vaiselle, in a second, although I hate it because Lucien uses such an unnecessary number of utensils for even the simplest of meals. We entertain a lot, and as he does all the cooking, I always have to do the washing up. When we have dinner parties not

only does he cook the most ostentatious of multicourse meals but the table has to be laid like a finedining restaurant. All of that then has to be hand washed. I was in a bad mood once and broke four glasses simply drying them with a tea towel. Hes an amazing cook, though, too good, perhaps; Id like to get a foothold in the kitchen to learn, but he doesnt trust me. I grew up in London, where no one has heard of a salad spin dryer and everyone eats wet lettuce, if at all. The kitchen was converted from a cowshed and the trough is now a larder. The most modern convenience is probably the hot running water. Its amazing how similar the French word for washing up is to my mothers maiden name. The sun is out again, so there should be a rainbow, shortly. Lucien has made the house look very pretty. He has bought in a huge bunch of rosemary and put it atop the wood next to the fire, which he has allowed to die out. It may have been very hot the last couple of days, but as we are seeing, here in the hills the weather can turn at any time.

Madeleine, a supremely elegant longhaired cat who adopted Lucien a few months ago a Birman, he thinks is completely ignoring me, possibly as I havent fed her the entire time Ive been here. Now that weve both come indoors (Lucien sounds as if hes just sat in front of his computer upstairs) the rain has stopped and a certain sunny brightness is coming in through the windows and door. As Ive been using his computer, with its French keyboard, Im now getting slightly confused using my own. French keyboards are weird. You need to press shift for full stops and commas and numbers and everything, and its AZERTY instead of QWERTY, but German keyboards are even worse. Madeleine is cleaning herself out right in front of me. Absolutely no manners. I had, just before lunch, been reading a little bit about Caravaggio. Mario Minniti was sixteen years old when he posed for Boy With a Basket of Fruit, of which Lucien has a print in his bedroom. The tenderness with which Caravaggio presented his subject has led some to speculate that he and Minniti were lovers. However, there is a tension in the boys neck and shoulders that is at odds with the softness in his face; the basket of fruit must have weighed a ton and been held in pose for hours. The artist typically eschewed the aid of preparatory drawings for the spontaneity of working straight onto the canvas. The final masterpiece is imbued with a slightly fraught edge. It is improbable that the sitter could have remained still for so long in such a pose, his labial lips slightly parted and moist, and the tip

of the tongue visible just inside. The artist could conceivably have been painting as much from the romanticised image he had formed of Minniti in his head as from the possibly restless, tiring form he saw before him. Im making a lot of mistakes with my keyboard now, particularly with full stops. It has become strange that Lucien actually wants to fuck me. He even did, two nights ago. Like a binge drinker, every time I get fucked I realise why I hate to be it hurt like hell and Ive been farting like a cow ever since. Now that weve both come indoors, its stopped raining, as could have been predicted. The telephone rang Luciens mother. I couldnt really talk to her. Im quite sure that other languages will come to me before French, so perhaps I should turn my back on it in favour of German, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian, before coming back. I would be much obliged if Lucien would actually speak to me in French, but hes being terribly selfish, claiming it to be a release for him to speak English. I guess hes not a teacher, and so I cannot expect to rely on him. Last night I had a dream involving Leona Lewis. Id interviewed her, and she was a bit of a pompous bitch, but in my article I claimed that she was allowed to be because she was a real lady, although she actually looked like a chav, with her Sweater Shop sweater, cheap perfume, lank hair and Argos 9ct-gold neck-chain, with I dont remember quite a bear or a love heart pendant.


The mum said cops had talked to Cleary in computer speak and she could not understand the discussion.

#AntiSec (virtual)

#AntiSec (actual)


Im out. I decided that when he called me a moron and an idiot and tried to fuck me again, just because I asked him to brush his teeth and turn off the music because I wanted to go to sleep. When he tried to force his hand down my pants I asked him to stop. Of his own accord he went and slept in the other room. This morning, hes behaving as if Im the one who has done wrong. He was blind drunk, and I wasnt going to let him fuck me like that. The negatives are outweighing the positives. We all have occasional problems with our loved ones, but Lucien and I seem to have run-ins more often than most. The saving grace of our relationship has been his lifestyle, i.e., he comes to London for a week or ten days and then fucks off back to France for four or five weeks. Every time I come here, whether for five days or a month, at some stage I begin to feel trapped and worry whether I will ever get home alive. We are in the middle of nowhere and I dont drive. Im sure hell be nice to

me before the day is out and my mood will change again, or Ill simply back down and apologise. Of course that is exactly what he is waiting for me to do. I only care because, on Monday morning, I will need a lift to the station. He took me into the barn and showed me some old drawings and paintings. I was like, Wow, these are amazing, what are you doing with them? and he said, with a silly grin, nothing, little one, and I said youre crazy, you should at least try to get a survey somewhere and sell them and he was like, little one, you dont understand, Ive been there and done that. But what are you doing with your life? I said, quite without thinking. He turned around and glared at me. What are you doing with yours? Im young, I said, and gaining life experience. Even being with you will stand me in good stead, Big One. Im just learning. Well dont be

disrespectful to those who have already made something of themselves, he said. You can be very arrogant sometimes, little one. I said nothing, but went back into the house, poured myself a whisky (I had become used to drinking a lot so that when he kissed me my mouth tasted the same as his) and sat down in the lounge. Madeleine came up to me and brushed my leg with her tail. I just looked at her. She is beautiful but I hate cats. I dont want to be owned and toyed with by a cat. She rolled over onto her back. I went upstairs. Then the doorbell rang, a silly, whimsical tune. Lucien was in the barn and may not have heard it, so I had to answer the door. It was Gilles walking down from the road, where hed left his truck. We didnt like Gilles, but he didnt know that. He owned most of the local land, including the paddock adjacent to Luciens property, where he used to keep horses. Hed got all the mares pregnant at the same time. A spectacularly huge and muscular white horse carried a foal inside her that thrashed about so much she looked as if she could burst. Watching her was like a video camera trained on a building about to be bombed lingering unflinching; you know whats going to happen but its still a surprise when it does. But the first to give birth was the daughter of the huge white horse, a grey mare, who was Luciens favourite because she always came up to the fence and nibbled bread from his hand. The foal seemed healthy and we christened her Paulette but there was another family in the paddock, a stoic brown mare and her idiotic colt son, who kept trying to fuck the hanging

placenta out of the grey mare, who in turn was obviously too exhausted to ward him off, so it was up to the white mare, majestically powerful even in her barrel-bellied condition, to protect her. The colt wanted to kill the foal, and even as Paulette could barely walk she found herself running away from him as he chased her out of the paddock and under a barbed wire fence. They had to cordon off some of the paddock specially for Paulette and the grey mare but even that failed to deter the colt, so Gilles and one of his farmer mates came down in a wagon and took him away, probably for horsemeat. Paulette soon died anyway. Its rude not to so I had to sit there with them while they had their conversation in French about whatever. Gilles occasionally glanced politely in my direction to acknowledge I existed but made no further attempt to include me, so I played the housewife and kept their drinks topped up and put out bread and cheese. Goodness knows what they must think of Lucien and I around here, a middleaged, cultured white Frenchman and his young, mixed-race English guest, but theyre always very polite. He thinks nobody realises hes gay, despite all the nude boy portraits dotted around the house, and because none of the local peasants are interested in high art or technology, none of them would have heard of his infamy as an artist or would be inclined to search for his name online. I went into the lounge and put on something silly and uplifting by Offenbach, and fluffed-up the cushions and spread out the black drapery on the sofas, creating a cloud of dust that even as it fell looked atmospheric in this beautiful, dark room. They seemed to be having a laugh and even if the

truth was that Lucien actually despised Gilles he was doing a very good job of playing the jovial chum. In fact, Gilless visit, and the wine we drank, seemed to cheer us all up. Once hed left, Lucien said: Little one, I was pottering around in the barn and found a film I made that I havent seen for twenty years. Will you watch it with me? I made us coffee, and we watched, on the old TV/ video combi, a montage of images of wasteland, farmland, cityscapes, tramps living under bridges, roadkill, ballet dancers practicing, a crying baby, a washing line on which billowed the cavernous tents of an obese man, identical new cars coming off a production line, maltreated animals in a zoo, a presidents accession ceremony and other such now clichd state-of-the-nation visual elements, along with geometric, kaleidoscopic animations that look like what you see when you rub your eyes too much. Cuts from Greek pop songs and minimalist compositions, along with ambient sounds such as birdsong, accompany the images. Fragments of white text on a black background appear every few frames: Tanks have become tractors. The hills are green and lush. Farmers look like go-go boys. The great destruction is over. Now we create. We do not speak of ills. Humans suffered because they asked, why? Now, no one asks why. They just do, and glorify their ignorance. Intellectuals are the underclass. We are turning the earth into a paradise. They are extending the garden. It is not for them to make such a decision.

France has perpetuated herself, and believes she is the chosen one. There is more sifting to be done. One day it will rain in Africa, and we will be there to plant the seeds. What happens during that moment of imminent death, that last moment of consciousness of fate? Does one have the time or presence of mind to comprehend their position at the precipice, and then take a step forwards? Eight pairs of boots marched into my house. And then he ran upstairs to cry.


Film still. To see film in full visit: or



I had a very strange waking dream, that there were a hundred or so of us collected in a room for a meeting that included the artist Beverley Bennett, some of her friends, and some other boys. During the break we went for coffee in various places. Afterwards we ended up dancing, in our shirts and dresses, in someones house, posing for photographs. I seemed to be terribly happy. My deceased grandfather then announced the results of a raffle, of which the top prize was 200,000, a relatively life-changing amount of money. He opened the envelope, and with the smile disappearing from his face, called out, Benedict Arnold. The result was met with whispering and muted applause, while I clasped my mouth with joy and the realisation that finally, my life would change for the better I began to think of all the things I could do with the money, while everyone else in the room looked accusingly on. Finally, my Jamaican grandfather approached me and said, in a cut-glass English accent, Ben, did you fix this? before I put him supine and said, Just because Ive come from this stupid family doesnt mean Ive

tried to fix the result. How dare you accuse me! Fuck you! Fuck you! I counted my winnings. They amounted to 200. A very tall and graceful woman stooped down to plant a congratulatory kiss on my cheek, although the main attraction, rather than me, was some great evangelist who performed bare-chested and as sinewy as Brad Pitt in Fight Club. As he was surrounded by screaming female fans he turned this way and that, his face always eluding me. I didnt know what time it was, but I was wide awake, startled even, and so I got up. Luciens door was slightly ajar, so I popped my head round. He was still sleeping, with his back to the door. Madeleine was curled up next to him. I went downstairs. I love a house first thing in the morning when Im the only person up and all the shutters are closed, just to sit alone in the silence, drinking my coffee and buzzing off the end of a waking dream, particularly this house, with the cold stone floors and walls breaking off and crumbling little by little

and crunching underfoot. A silent morning in this room could be spent forever sat drinking coffee on the black velvet throw, with the scents of the rosemary in the fireplace and lavender on the sidetable, the darkness interrupted by the perfect laser of chiaroscuro light through the gap in the shutters. Every new dawn fades, so when I finish my coffee I go back to the stove and put on some fresh for Lucien. He does so much for me and Im afraid I dont give enough back. I will heat and froth the milk with a whisk on the stove. He really is very good to me, but we havent slept in the same bed for two nights now, which Im not entirely unhappy about, although it does make things a little tense. I dont know what happened to him last night, he wont tell me. Hed been gone for around twenty minutes before I started to worry about him. I found him in the attic standing next to the open window, trembling and sobbing profusely. When he saw me he looked embarrassed, as if he had been caught doing or considering doing something. I asked him why he was crying, and he said that a young man hed been in love with, who was later murdered by thugs, inspired the film. He was the most wonderful young man Ive ever met, he said. When we were reunited he said that I had become the most wonderful young man he had ever met. We had a quiet dinner, after which we both retired to separate rooms to read. It was a very strange film, and I couldnt really concentrate. That line Eight pairs of boots marched into my house stuck in my head. He is a little bit tragic sometimes, and it endears him to me when he has otherwise been arrogant and obnoxious. Thats what its like with

older guys. They have lived. They have substance. They are the gravity that ethereal beings like me must cling to in order to survive. I was afraid though, when he stood by the window, hysterical. Would he have wanted to climb out? What happens during that moment of imminent death, that last moment of consciousness of fate? Does one have the time or presence of mind to comprehend their position at the precipice, and then take a step forwards? The milk begins to boil. Shit. Madeleine comes into the kitchen and goes to her tray, sniffs around and comes to me. I hear footsteps upstairs. Hes up. Im useless. I empty the pan into the sink and pour some fresh in, hoping it heats up enough before the coffee spoils, and give Madeleine fresh water. Shell only drink water that is absolutely fresh, so I dont know what she does when Luciens in London. The toilet flushes. Lucien is whistling. I shouldnt have sat down all that time, I should have made the coffee and taken it to him. Little ones up bright and early! he calls from the lounge as he walks through, in his trademark mildly sarcastic tone. At least hes back to his old self. I was making you a coffee. I wanted to bring it to you in bed as a surprise but then I burnt the milk and now youre here. Silly little one! he says, pinching my nose and grinning almost manically at me, the way he often does. Give your daddy a kiss.


Beverley Bennett is founder and co-director of TBC Artists Collective. Her practice revolves around the act of drawing and the perpetual possibilities it possesses. Acts of play evolve into the ritualistic, perfomative, labour intensive actions that generate a greater understanding of the process, in turn allowing the visual to become secondary. She recently curated the exhibition Radicals and Non-Conformists at the National Portrait Gallery, London and had her first solo show outside the UK at Unit Gallery, Hong Kong in May 2011.

Paul Mendez is a writer who has previously worked in the sex industry. He is currently working on a first novel about the mental and emotional conflict created by a strict, religious upbringing and subsequent reactionary spiral into prostitution, as a means to an end. Boy Meets Caravag gio is an evolution of The Thirteenth, a short story published in the very first Issue Zero of 12-Pages, in October 2010, and represents the transition from experience, through fictionalised experience, to pure fiction.

Charley Peters completed her PHD in Fine Art Theory and Practice in 2006 and is codirector of TBC Artists Collective. Her individual practice explores the liminal space between technology and tradition, figuration and abstraction, chance and control, and information and meaning. Her solo show Transmission opens at Electric Blue Gallery, London, in October 2011.

LAURA DAVIDSON (editor of issue)

Laura Davidson investigates the possibilities of the performance document and produces work as a script or documentation of an event, primarily through mark making. Keen to challenge traditional definitions of the drawing, Davidson views drawing practice as research and documentation. In a move away from pursuing art practice, Davidson recently produced critical writing for Arts Admin project Visible Tracks, a blog documenting the exhibition Wake Archipelago at Dilston Grove, London.

Editor-in-chief Paul Mendez Editor of Issue 8 Altered States Laura Davidson Cover and layout design Laura Davidson Fonts Optima

TBC Artists Collective comprises four London-based artists Beverley Bennett, Charley Peters, Laura Davidson and Paul Mendez who work collectively to generate projects with a focus on drawing and its scope within contemporary art practice. Always keen to challenge creative identities and generate new ideas, the 12-Pages Online Project Space enables members and associates to regularly produce new work by means of short deadlines and notional themes, often instigating fresh lines of inquiry. 12-Pages Magazine seeks to document each key stage in the development of these and other of the collectives investigations.


The works of artists and the images of works shown in 12-Pages are the subject of copyright. The copyright of works remains with the artist and any use of an image of a work is subject to agreement with the artist. You should not reproduce any image without the explicit prior written consent of the artist. The TBC logo is the copyright of TBC Artists Collective. All other photographs, graphics and text attributed to TBC members are the copyright of TBC and its members and also require our explicit prior written permission before reproduction in any form. TBC logo designed by Susheel Basra.

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