Glass/ petals

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Gold mirror. dust. a piece of glass. rosebuds. 
Dead petals & an undying crevice in chest turned photo set- 
white flash at night/ black in 11am light. 

Chayse, Coney Island

Sunday, January 1, 2017

"Initially, I was unaware that time, so boundless at first blush, was a prison."
 -Vladimir Nabokov

Starting 2017 off on two hours of sleep, and Nabokov's autobiography Speak, Memory. 
I'm reading every other sentence seven times, his writing is so beautiful. I also liked this bit from the first chapter:

"Man as a rule views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for at forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour."

forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour....
and a few memories that helped combat a restless mind & ease a melange of emotions felt at the turn of the new year:

1. Here She Comes Now, The Velvet Underground
2. Pop Crimes, Rowland S. Howard
3. Souvenirs, Devandra Banhart
4. You Stopped Making Sense, The Radio Dept

Listening to each of these songs is reliving four experiences with you, aching dazzle of ephemerality. 


Tuesday, December 6, 2016

20. November 2016
Chateau Tivoli 

Late afternoon light filtering through delicate lace, translucent like a glass winged butterfly casting veined sunspots across the room of a Victorian. In ancient Greek, butterflies were called psyche- soul, breath, and mind, in Latin, papilio/ onis, soul of the dead. The 1991 film Silence of the Lambs, influenced McQueen toward the image of butterflies or moths being encased in fabric for his collections. Nabokov's esoteric, obsessive hunt for the perfect papillon specimen; the black ones have always been my favorite. 

This week: an overwhelming dichotomy of beauty and cruelty, light and loss present in the world and all the things we left unsaid; in the end the art we escape into is only a reflection of a deeper reality, a brutal elegance.  

Moonlight Garden, NYC

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

New York City, 11. 2016

i. everything is amplified in this city.
A rush of freedom and fascination, followed by inhibition, 
an electricity charged by contradiction and though these white flowers
in a pool of black velvet could be flowers in any garden of any city, 
only they share the piercing thirst of a lost quixotic 
in the epicenter of a concrete circumference where
loneliness too, is unimaginably alive. 

Petals, a fragile handful falling between cracks, unnoticed 
by a ceaseless city and in my own heightened awareness
come alive at night, white beacons of enigma in a moonlight garden. 

ii. "An effigy of a youth that is eternal" 
-Marcel Proust on collecting photos of muse Countess Greffulhe, for A la recherché de temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), as seen in "Proust's Muse" at F.I.T

iii. "untitled" -the cure 

Six for Anaise

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Model: Logan Link
Photos for Anaise F/W'16 

Always a dream working with these two.

tobacco trance

Sunday, October 2, 2016

i. the color of memory
ii. of reverie
iii. of vice

Un reverie ou un cauchemar? Lately: noticing all the inner worlds that exist in the concrete circumference of a late-night city square, two bright young things in an old-soul jazz bar on the top floor of a hidden hotel, syncopated echoes of snare that follow our cold bare legs, outline sadness with a glimmer of brass. 


"Portraits of a Lady" by T.S. Eliot

And four wax candles in the darkened room
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.

And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.

Jack ii.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

 favorite boy in my favorite sweater
magenta vintage angora,
a fun little thing.  

Now & Then

Saturday, September 10, 2016

photo by purple

A few images that stole my heart this week:

1. Slightly overwhelmed by all the magic in this photo: Adwoa Aboah and her green feather sandals, Hôtel de la Païva, petite red florals, and MIU MIU. 

2. A visit to MoAD's bookstore after work (a block from SFMOMA, why it took me this long to visit is a wonder), where I found, devoured, and then very nearly purchased John Paul Goude's book. It's filled with his collage works, storyboards, illustrations, photographs and art direction, with icons like Grace Jones, and it's ravishing. And I can't stop thinking about it...

3. Which brings me to the Grace Jones and Dandy Lion exhibit at MoAD. I've visited twice in the last few days- once with Jack and once by myself. It's a small but really powerful two exhibits that between me and Jack, resulted in at least a hundred collective oh my gods, plus another few in my head alone the next day. All while scribbling down statements in our notebooks like "a dandy doesn't grow, he evolves." and "dandy- just returned from Venus" (!!) In the confidence Grace exudes, her androgyny and her fearless, boundary-pushing interpretation of music and style, she continues to be an icon- a trailblazer, inspiration, and reference point for countless others after her. These shots of Grace Jones by Andy Warhol are a few of my favorites from his book of polaroids (discovered on lunch break at my own museum store), a heavy collection of his factory days well worth the sore arms required to hold the book up. 

Sunset blvd

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Watching the sun go down in LA fixes everything inside, if only for a few golden seconds. 

one weekend: 
floral blouses, floral couches, 12 hours in a cemetery,
are you the last guest or the first guest at a 24 hour diner? 
Stopping outside the Roosevelt hotel at the split second the
 pink neon lights switched off like a pretty dictator of a new day,  
walking down Sunset Blvd drowning in sleepiness, 
Jim Morrison humming in my ears, 
"no eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn"

this kind of ephemeral exists only here.


Saturday, August 6, 2016

" I asked him what freedom feels like "

I brought the book of poems by e.e. cummings you lent me,
on that later than midnight the two of us
waiting in a train station platform
 cold stone bench and tired faces everywhere and 
our ears ringing in the silence 
after a loud party,
theres something electric about sharing a poem 
that means everything with one person.

It feels like

Dev Hynes' Freetown Sound, 
and Plainsong by the Cure
and dancing all night to 60's soul
and learning how to Vogue.

It feels like 

letting loose, letting go from yourself
and from all the no's and can't and why's
you tell yourself,
weightlessness of a cumulus cloud
he said. 


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