Peter de Potter
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JBB: An Artblog!

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@chronographically-blog
Peter de Potter
Peter Greenaway’s The Pillow Book
And yet Rodin does belong to us, not by virtue of his light-trap modeling, but because in him, for the first time, we see firm flesh resolve itself into a symbol of perpetual flux. Rodin’s anatomy is not the fixed law of each human body but the fugitive configuration of a moment. […] And the strength of the Rodinesque forms does not lie in the suggestion of bone, muscle and sinew. It resides in the more irresistible energy of liquefaction, in the molten pour of matter as every shape relinquishes its claim to permanence. Rodin’s form thus becomes symbolic of an energy more intensely material, more indestructible and more universal than human muscle power. And it is here, I believe, that Rodin links up with contemporary vision. — Art Digest, August 1953, Leo Steinberg, in Other Criteria: Confrontations with Twentieth-Century Art.
Io sono l’amore - 2009 (dir. Luca Guadagnino)
ты больше не пишешь стихи, ты не фотографируешь меня. это же так романтично, - нет. у тебя за ухом сигарета, ты достаешь ее - подкуриваешь. затягиваешься не спеша, будто дым - твой воздух. ты думаешь, что я милая. иногда ты позволяешь себе поцеловать меня
‘What are you doing up so late? … I’m counting the stars … Do you really know all their names? … Yes I do … How many did you count? … A hundred … There are more than a hundred … I know … Why did you stop? … A hundred is enough, once you’ve counted a hundred all the other hundreds are the same’
Drowning By Numbers (1988)
For a summer of drug abuse on the island of Capri, she packed a wardrobe of black Morticia gowns, dyed her hair green, and paraded through the village streets with a crystal ball, followed by a retainer in gold body paint. — Scot D. Ryersson, The Marchesa Casati: Portraits of a Muse.
maxfield parris, young king of the black isles, 1910.
Mariacarla Boscono photographed by Juergen Teller for Paradis Magazine #4
In the Vénérande Mansion, in the left wing, whose shutters are always closed, there is a walled chamber. That room is as blue as a cloudless sky, and on the bed shaped like a shell, an Eros of marble watches over a wax figure covered with transparent rubber. The red hair, the fair eyelashes, the gold hair of the chest are natural; the teeth that are in the mouth, and the nails on the hands and feet, have been torn from a corpse. The enameled eyes have an adorable look. The walled chamber has a door hidden in the draperies of the dressing room. At night, sometimes a woman dressed in mourning, and sometimes a young man in evening clothes, opens this door. One or the other kneels at the foot of the bed, and, after contemplating at length the marvelous lines of the wax statue, embraces it, and kisses it on its mouth. A hidden spring, installed at the inside of the hips, connects with the mouth and brings it to life. This wax figure, an anatomical masterpiece, was fabricated by a German. — RACHILDE, Monsieur Venus.