Picture Book of the Week: Yes to a Rosy Future

Bashar al-Assad's last campaign.

“His portraits are everywhere: gas stations, bus stops, supermarkets, restaurants. On top of posters that are faded, sometimes torn, new portraits are added. Whatever their size, whether a publicity handout or a tarp covering the side of a building, they are omnipresent and picture a calm, imposing leader.”

These words, written by Christian Brändle – director of the Zurich Design Museum – in his afterward to Yes to a Rosy Future, (Trolley, £12.99) encapsulate the eerie magnetism of Nicolas Righetti’s latest photo book: a series taken during the Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad’s last presidential campaign. Righetti left Beruit during the 2007 Lebanese conflict, taking shelter in Syria in time for the controversial May elections that saw al-Assad re-elected Head of State with a reported 97 percent of the vote. “These enormous and ubiquitous portraits were a tradition started by Bashar al-Assad’s father, Hafez, who ran Syria from 1970 to 2000”; states the book’s introduction. “The son’s ascendancy was initially marked by a notable decline of the personality cult as well as hope for a more open, democratic society.” 

Righetti’s pictures of pre-election personality propaganda, each accompanied by statements from the President’s official speeches (“I will remain the Syrian people’s benevolent son”) are a poignant lament for the “sad turnaround” of Assad’s leadership and a return to the “coercive traditions of the old Ba’ath party”. Righetti is no stranger to dictatorship, having completed previous project in North Korea and Turkmenistan.

“Such portraits allow a sovereign to be everywhere on his territory,” concludes Brändle: “A portrait makes one see and feel a set of intentions.... background, text and clothes are part of a calculated construction.”

Political iconography is inherently a facade, and after two years of brutal civil war such cheery, paternal warmth rings ever more false against a backdrop of suffering. These “photographic sculptures” are being torn down. 

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All photographs courtesy and property of Nicolas Righetti/Trolley Books

Words: Charlotte Simmonds 

"Yes to a rosy future" was the government slogan behind al-Assad's 2007 campaign. (Photo: Nicholas Righetti/Trolley Books)
Photo: Hunter Skipworth / Moment
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Cones and cocaine: the ice cream van's links with organised crime

A cold war is brewing to the tinkling of "Greensleeves".

Anyone who has spent a summer in this country will be familiar with the Pavlovian thrill the first tinny notes of “Greensleeves” stir within the stolid British breast.

The arrival of the ice cream van – usually at least two decades older than any other vehicle on the road, often painted with crude approximations of long-forgotten cartoon characters and always, without fail, exhorting fellow motorists to “Mind that child!” – still feels like a simple pleasure of the most innocent kind.

The mobile ice cream trade, though, has historical links with organised crime.

Not only have the best routes been the subject of many, often violent turf wars, but more than once lollies have served as cover for goods of a more illicit nature, most notoriously during the Glasgow “Ice Cream Wars” of the early 1980s, in which vans were used as a front for fencing stolen goods and dealing drugs, culminating in an arson attack that left six people dead.

Although the task force set up to tackle the problem was jokingly nicknamed the “Serious Chimes Squad” by the press, the reality was somewhat less amusing. According to Thomas “T C” Campbell, who served almost 20 years for the 1984 murders before having his conviction overturned in 2004, “A lot of my friends were killed . . . I’ve been caught with axes, I’ve been caught with swords, open razors, every conceivable weapon . . . meat cleavers . . . and it was all for nothing, no gain, nothing to it, just absolute madness.”

Tales of vans being robbed at gunpoint and smashed up with rocks abounded in the local media of the time and continue to pop up – a search for “ice cream van” on Google News throws up the story of a Limerick man convicted last month of supplying “wholesale quantities” of cocaine along with ice cream. There are also reports of the Mob shifting more than 40,000 oxycodone pills through a Lickety Split ice cream van on Staten Island between 2009 and 2010.

Even for those pushing nothing more sinister than a Strawberry Split, the ice cream business isn’t always light-hearted. BBC Radio 4 devoted an entire programme last year to the battle for supremacy between a local man who had been selling ice creams in Newbiggin-by-the-Sea since 1969 and an immigrant couple – variously described in the tabloids as Polish and Iraqi but who turned out to be Greek – who outbid him when the council put the contract out to tender. The word “outsiders” cropped up more than once.

This being Britain, the hostilities in Northumberland centred around some rather passive-aggressive parking – unlike in Salem, Oregon, where the rivalry from 2009 between an established local business and a new arrival from Mexico ended in a highish-speed chase (for an ice cream van) and a showdown in a car park next to a children’s playground. (“There’s no room for hate in ice cream,” one of the protagonists claimed after the event.) A Hollywood production company has since picked up the rights to the story – which, aptly, will be co-produced by the man behind American Sniper.

Thanks to competition from supermarkets (which effortlessly undercut Mister Softee and friends), stricter emission laws in big cities that have hit the UK’s ageing fleet particularly hard, and tighter regulations aimed at combating childhood obesity, the trade isn’t what it used to be. With margins under pressure and a customer base in decline, could this summer mark the start of a new cold war?

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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