Sunday, April 20, 2014

James Pryde: Pomp and Slumber

"The Red Bed" source

"Lumber: A Silhouette"source

"The Doctor"source

"Death of the Great Bed"source

"The Slum" source

"An Ancient Harbor"source

"The Unknown Corner" source

sketch for "The Shrine" source

Somehow the scale of his paintings remind me of Sleep by Dopesmoker, a good pre-bedtime tune, in my opinion. 

Friday, April 18, 2014

If It's Not Perfect, What's the Point?

Usually you see the person and not their home, but it's strange to see the home and not the person. This isn't really pertaining to these pictures, exactly. But they did make me wonder what the people who live here are like. Strangely, I rarely wonder what the owners of a space look like while browsing interiors. This time I did, so I posted them. I know they like macaroons froLadurée, wear teal shoes, drink tea, carry a Celine bag and are most likely French. But what else? Are they anything like me, because I would have wanted my Saint Germain apartment decorated in a very similar way.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Give Me "Elsewhere"

I keep coming across things I thought I posted but it seems I didn't. These are the first place where I noticed Abbey Lee Kershaw. Looking at these, they aren't her best. I don't know if they were going for a Keith Richards look, with all the scarves and the drugged facial expressions with a slight nod to the 70's in terms of styling. Nevertheless, I really like these for some reason. I think Terry Richardson really captured something here. I can't decided what it is, exactly. I think it's that she looks so bored, but unlike the bored looking people one frequently encounters at parties, she actually has somewhere better to be. Wherever that is, real or not, is somehow captured like the way a leopard in a cage is bored there, because it would rather be basking in the sun somewhere, somewhere specific it can imagine being. This strange "elsewhere" look is a guess as to how she always looks so enigmatic. 

Images via touchpuppet

Dante's Inferno Shorts

There is something so fun about shorts with Dante's inferno on them. 

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Poem No. 1

Constant oppressive nothingness, swinging back and forth between pointless excess and pointless austerity.

What’s the point of all these?

Skin tastes sweet, that’s nice.

Perfume is deep, how sensual.

An orgasm lasts a pointless second.

 It is nothing that can be accurately described.

 I have been trying for years to describe this sensation.

 I have heard of words that might come close but I have yet to encounter one.

 It evades words because one only feels it at the times when one would not think to speak.

The overwhelming feeling that there is nothing.

Not that there was something and that there is nothing now, not that.

Only that there is perfect, absolute nothing.

The nothing cups the mind, muffling all motions.

An embrace from nothing.

A dance with nothing.

The nothing caresses me at all times.

When I play dead I am one with the nothing. 

When I get sad I play dead.

I am soothed by the nothing.

 I can feel my own skin and smell my own scent.

 I smell like almonds, earth, fur and death my scent intermingles with the scent of the nothing.

I can taste the nothing.

Between pointless belief and pointless skepticism.

Between pointless love and pointless hate.

 I embrace the nothing.

Between pointless agony and pointless euphoria.

 I never approach these, they are pointless.

 I stay in the pointless middle at all times.

 Shrouded in pointless meaning.

Pointlessness cannot be pointless. 

That is the diabolical center.

 The ones who are alone can feel the nothing like this.

 Enjoy the motions themselves because there is nothing beyond.

 Take pleasure in the powders and the salts and the oils and the spices.

 Design the method to be beautiful because the end cannot be.

 Delight in the down and the leather and velvet.

 Revel in the nothing.

 Practice what you understand, go over it again.

 The argument becomes refined silt in a river of unproductive endless dueling.

 So refined it slip through, every time.

No one catches it.

 I never say fewer than three things at one time, each carefully polished.

I’m lucky if someone hears one.  

Very rare.

God cannot help me because I suspect the nothingness have overtaken it too.

Do you remember colors?

My headache has eaten all the colors.

Everything becomes boredom inducing with time.

Even the pursuit of new things becomes tedious.

Boredom occasionally represents the missing word, the one I keep refereeing to as nothing but only faintly, only the outer dimensions.

Not the face.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

DSTM Boutique: Fantastique

This aesthetic needs an official name. I'm sure someone thought of one already but they didn't let me know. The trademarks are minimalistic bdsm inspired clothes, sumptuous but shabby decor, sparse antiques, vague suggestion of a ritual, all female cast, nighttime atmosphere. I would really love to style one of these. How about we call it "black leather in random European mansion", "Betty Page & friends" or we can name it after a Hammer film... but which one? 

photos via dirtyflaws

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