Vogue Italia, September 2003 issue
Stylist: Brana Wolf
Model: Jessice Stam
Photographer: Steven Meisel
Stylist: Brana Wolf
Model: Jessice Stam
Photographer: Steven Meisel
Sunday 31 July 2011
Wednesday 18 May 2011
Sweet Rosemary...
I suppose you are all wondering why I have posted a tragic poem and a tragic excerpt of such graceful women in literature. Well that is just it, they are graceful, whimsical and both loved men that could not love them back. The imagery is sad, beautiful and still gives them the ending they deserve...writing them into angelic forms and knowing only in death how they had love all along.
I have always been drawn towards tragic romance in literature and the romantic art of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. I have a great interest in the one of the Artists in particular, John William Waterhouse, as his paintings depict the women of these poems, and other myths and legends, to how I imagine them to look. From their faces, to their build, the way their clothes fall, the colours and textures of their hair, the smoothness of their often pale skin and their mannerisms.
Another one of my favourites by John William Waterhouse can be coupled with Keats's poem La Belle Dame sans Merci (1883).
Excerpt from La Belle Dame sans Merci (1883)
From a poem by Keats:
...
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragant zone,
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bed, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me foots or relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said-
"I love thee true!"
...
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)Tuesday 17 May 2011
Ophelia.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Act IV, scene vii
Queen Gertrude's speech about Ophelia's death:
~William Shakespeare~
John William Waterhouse
Ophelia 1910
Sunday 15 May 2011
Wednesday 11 May 2011
She left the web, She left the loom, she made three paces through the room
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
- Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892) -
- John William Waterhouse's 'The Lady of Shalott' (1888) -
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Aggressive Chocolate!!!
Coffee with the Girls!
(Erin, Lisa & Me)
After a great night out there is no better way to recover and recharge than with an AWESOME cup of
AGGRESSIVE CHOCOLATE!!!
Amazing Coffee can only be had at the best place in Durban Town...Colombo Fine Beverage co. with its' authentic 'old school' factory appearance and the original machinery laid out, where you can watch the beans being roasted while you enjoy a quality cup of one of their unique coffee blends.
Monday 25 April 2011
RIFLEbangbang!
“I always heard
don’t go messing with a girl with guns
she don’t need you
she couldn’t love you
she couldn’t be any fun,”
don’t go messing with a girl with guns
she don’t need you
she couldn’t love you
she couldn’t be any fun,”
“I never thought I could handle a girl with guns
and let me tell you
you can bet that I'm not the only one”
The beginning of many grand adventures; starting at Deane's South Coast Farm which I visited in the April Holidays. Lisa and I took a drive down the South Coast in promise of Rifles 101, and some target practice with the boys...turns out we are not a bad shot, a couple of bulls-eyes each!! Not bad for a days shooting!!!
We are planning another visit in the near future and hope to see more of the Farm, Hydroponic Farming sounds fascinating!! And improve our shooting; from good, to EXCELLENT!! We have been promised a clay pigeon shooting experience...and by George we shall be having it!!
and let me tell you
you can bet that I'm not the only one”
The beginning of many grand adventures; starting at Deane's South Coast Farm which I visited in the April Holidays. Lisa and I took a drive down the South Coast in promise of Rifles 101, and some target practice with the boys...turns out we are not a bad shot, a couple of bulls-eyes each!! Not bad for a days shooting!!!
We are planning another visit in the near future and hope to see more of the Farm, Hydroponic Farming sounds fascinating!! And improve our shooting; from good, to EXCELLENT!! We have been promised a clay pigeon shooting experience...and by George we shall be having it!!
Wednesday 13 April 2011
What is the use of a book, without pictures or conversations?
Vogue US
December 2003 this editorial was shot by photographer Annie Leibovitz
with model Natalia Vodianova.
Tom Ford
Nicolas Ghesquiere
Viktor & Rolf
Christian Lacroix
Natalia Vodianova
John Galliano
Olivier Theyskens (Rochas)
Marc Jacob
Karl Lagerfeld
Jean Paul Gaultier
Donatella Versace
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Monday 11 April 2011
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Sasha Pivovarova by Mario Testino (11 pics)
One of my favourite models, Sasha Pivovarova
Vogue UK late 2007
Tuesday 5 April 2011
The Birthday Party: Vee Speers
Vee studied Fine Art & Photography in Brisbane,
Australia. She resides in Paris where she finds unlimited potential and
endless creative inspiration for her work. Vee Speers’ work has been
exhibited in London, Paris, Miami, New York, Boston, Houston, Sydney, Atlanta,
Stockholm, and China, Ireland, Singapore, Japan, Germany, Austria, Italy,
Tunisia, Brazil and Mexico. Her work has also graced the covers of some
well known Brand campaigns and magazines.
This exhibition titled "The Birthday Party" was inspired
by her own child hood and family. These hauntingly beautiful portraits of
children are how she became established into the art world. "Her
ability to blur the line between autobigraphy and fantasy, the bizarre and
beautiful, is the key to these timeless portraits."
Saturday 26 March 2011
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