the classics

North by Northwest

You are more than the sum of your parts.

lillian bassman

abandoning one thought in anticipation of the next

We exist within an infinitely variable stream of consciousness. These waves that break upon the shores of our perceptions are rendered in an unidentifiable code; literal tangential nonsense, triggered by the most insignificant of factors. It is a surplus of information, a tsunami of jabber that the mind cannot be expected to retain on a daily basis. So many of the notions that occur to us over the course of a day are discarded, hopes of poignancy dashed as they are lost amidst the incessant noise. I sometimes wish there was a tape recorder that could document my thoughts in real time; a needle resting upon the pulse point of the brain, fervently transcribing thoughts as they emerge in perfect detail.

We can almost sense the anxiety creeping up on us, that feeling of missing something as it is happening, before it’s even over. The feeling that we will blink and everything will suddenly be different.

It’s enough to inspire a desperate compulsion; a frantic need to absorb everything as it occurs. To record it and file it away for some kind of secret rumination. To have it impressed so avidly upon our minds that there is a certain scent/voice/melody/touch/taste that prompts the sensation of déjà vu. That implacable recognition that this has all happened somewhere along the line before.

Unnerving, and yet, oddly sentimental.

It resonates and grows stronger in connotative awareness. You remember the feeling, even if you do not remember how.

I wonder if your inner voice is meek or thunderous, callous or sensitive. If it is thoughtful and inquisitive about the world around, or if it is too preoccupied with whatever menial task is at hand to notice as it slips away. I wonder if it recognizes the subtleties in the spaces between the lines. To hear you think with unabashed candor would be the rarest of gifts; the private opportunity to immortalize the half and quarter digressions you thought that never piqued your interest enough to be developed, and were instead dissolved into nothingness. To see you raw and exposed, without the skin of society hanging from your bones and molding you into who you think you should be.



And I wonder if it would be in that the moment in which I found I loved you the least, or the most...

"to me, new york was jackson pollock sipping vodka and dripping paint over a raw canvas."
- factory girl

nostalgic for new york of the 1960's
for a time and place and people that i never knew
for a feeling that lingers inside

of youthful courage and ignorance
of heartache in the lonely streets
in the city that never sleeps

feel it walking around strange neighborhoods
that are inexplicably familiar
old buildings housing new thoughts
like a dream that you remember
as it fades away

cigarette smoke on the stoop
dylan in the background
skyscrapers ablaze against the darkness

i will wait for you

street style

scalloped edged everything

classics paired with print

images courtesy of tommy ton

outfit love

vogue, october 2010

autumn essence :

military greens & navys
voluminous skirts
shetland sweaters
lace up booties

(worn with slouchy socks)

a thanksgiving feast

turkery
chicken
garlic mashed potatoes
haricot verts
maple glazed carrots & turnips
stuffing (2 kinds)
sweet potato fries with pecans and brown sugar
pumpkin pie
bottle count: 7

the greatest bounty:
friends that have become family

x x

freckled noses & crooked smiles

kate moss by corrine day
1990

imperfect beauty
is
vulnerable
honest
unapologetic

magnetic

.

human effigy

Amica Italia, March 210
by Mark Pillai

the statuesque repose .

aberration&ardor

I think there is something to be said for all this electronic music business. People don’t traverse huge expanses of land for nothing. And yes, granted, it may not be the first time it has happened…in the seventies it was bands like zeppelin and floyd, in the nineties grunge took centre stage. But this is the here, the now of it all, and I think it is important to take note of what the youth of today’s generation is listening to. How music that is performed with no instruments, with minimal vocal inflection, and all stems from some electronic boxes placed upon a literal pedestal before thousands, while a single being acts as master puppeteer before them is nothing short of an unembellished mindfuck.

There is something in these chords and synths that induces a real trancelike state; so primal in nature that it is impossible for the body to ignore. The subconscious is free to surface into an environment of pure love and the contact high that results from exposed nerves connecting with that energy is an unexplainable feeling. The world just seems right. Your soul soars. It is religious in more ways that any other traditionally spiritual ceremony I have encountered. The chi, the karma, the aura (whathaveyou) that envelopes such a scenario is so authentic that the manufactured tribulations of everyday life suddenly come to feel shamefully superfluous. In what other world can you feel so closely united to thousands of people you have never even met? The collective force is unstoppable, the beats pulsating through your body a rhythmic force that cannot be denied, that cannot help but induce the bouncing of a foot, the swaying of the hips. Lips and fingertips burn to be kissed and caressed, the overflow from such a colossally intimate interaction so abundant that you can’t help but crave it.

With stars in our eyes we go on, searching for truths we don’t even know we seek. Listening to music that unconsciously changes us, that makes all others redundant and opens our hearts and minds to the possibility of artistic expressions greater than the mundane we have chosen to accept.

of antiquity

"You could always tell what kind of a person a man thinks you are by the earrings he gives you. I must say, the mind reels."

Its like a cinematic dream you want to crawl into and completely dissolve in. Each frame so perfectly poignant in aesthetic splendor, the minimalism of the modern world seems dreary by comparison. How marvelous it would be to simply step inside such a vision and be wrapped up entirely in bygone era. The nostalgia, the romanticism for the past, the glamorous notion that trivial daily routines require perfectly shined shoes and pouting lips, heavy with rouge. There lies an emptiness in today’s stripped away nature of social decorum, a longing for the propriety of public behavior so specific that the suppressed raw emotion beneath could not help but have been of a more concentrated variety. Excess in all forms.

The evening begins with dabbles of eau de’parfum poured onto dainty wrists from a glittering glass bottle, one of many that shines amidst the collective treasures assembled luxuriously upon the vanity. In the background a record plays the dulcet tones of a crooning Sinatra.

The sinful silhouette of the curvaceous female form put on display in a skin-tight sheath, the man pressed close up behind, dragging up a zipper that he knows with delicious anticipation he will be sliding down later that evening. Male impulses becoming loosely veiled in the privacy of a hotel suite; the primal urge to assert his lust over the enticing female all but irrepressible as it runs through his blood.

(It is the sad truth that men don’t wear cuff links enough. French cuff shirts are so sexy. There is a sense of class about it, of power and dignity regarding one’s appearance. )

And then there is the moment at the lounge: the climax of the pristine romantic scenario. A backdrop provided by The Savoy: the lofty ceilings hewn out of creamy stone surfaces. Regal palm trees hold a court of posterity amidst the bustling white-coated waiters. Round tables are set with rich clothes and fine china, a bouquet of flushing red roses arranged in the centre of each. A harp, piano, and violin meld in a harmonious melody of champagne bubble bliss, lulling thoughts into hazy dreams and soft pleasure.

He smokes his cigarette with candor, surveying the room. High-backed chairs with embroidered upholstery, and crisp linen napkins folded into precise points. No detail was left unexamined, for this was the culmination of ultimate luxury.

And then his eyes lift, the silverware gleams in the dim illumination; the stairway, as if spotlighted, beckons the attention of the entire room…the music swells, the crowd dissipates. She is the only being in the room retaining his attention; he is transfixed and allows his gaze to wander over her. A pale pink gown swirls in decadent froths, her luxurious mink coat (a gift from himself) rests elegantly upon her slim frame. Diamonds sparkle upon her open neck and hang in large orbs from her ears, a dainty gloved wrist bearing a matching strand. Her hair is coiffed into a perfect wave with the ends curling lusciously at the nape of her neck, her lashes dark and thick, lips plump and glossy. She smiles abashedly upon catching his hungry stare, and struts eagerly over to him, men glancing at her in open attraction as she passes them by in oblivion. Her face concentrated on his, the attention of the room at her disposal, charmingly unawares. Her eyes flash dark blue with a tingling want as she kisses him flush on the lips.

incorrigible

Their style was classic devil-may-care, rock n’ roll: thick furs, gaudy prints, ruffled sleeves, rounded shades, chunky heels, skin-tight leathers, and of course, the ever-present cigarette accessory (accented accordingly with lustrous shaggy manes and plump pouts). Simultaneously incorrigible and devastatingly sensual, their pairing was the paramount of quintessential 1960’s sexuality and flair.

john-paul jespersen

notre jour viendra

romanticist

the bird cage by frederick carl frieseke

lavenders&lush

plunge

lore

emerald enigma

iconic gown from atonement, won by keira knightly

by jacqueline durran