SHE HANGS BRIGHTLY

"On ne naît pas femme : on le devient."

[fe109]

Bowery Electric Beat 1996

[fe109]

The Immortals - The Ultimate Warlord (1979)

[fe109]

Supersempfft - I See Stars

From the album "Metaluna" - 1982

[fe109]

Jean-Claude Lord - Bingo (1974) 

[fe109]

Print ad for Newport cigarettes, directed towards young African American men, and advertised in low-income communities during the 70′s.  

[fe109]

The Malagasy poet Jean Joseph Rabearivelo (1901-1937) was the first major French-language poet in Africa. Some of his most powerful poetry arose from the conflict between his intimacy with two cultures, Malagasy and French, and his estrangement from two societies, native and colonial. 

[fe109]

Glass Animals - ZABA

[fe109]

Qing mei zhu ma AKA Taipei Story (1985)

To appreciate just how bitter a pill Edward Yang was serving up with Taipei Story, it helps to understand the sarcastic fake-out embedded in the film’s Chinese title. Lifted from a poem by Tang dynasty master Li Bai, Qingmei zhuma translates literally as “Green plum, bamboo horse,” a phrase that, like many classical idioms in the language, distills human experience to a tableau of emblematic objects that can be savored by the mind’s eye. Here the experience being described is one of kismet—an eternal love that evolves out of the carefree games of childhood and preserves its innocence even as the companions age. Seeing these words on a marquee in 1985, the year the film was released, the average Taiwanese viewer would have been primed to expect the kind of escapist melodrama that commercial Chinese-language cinema had excelled at for decades, or at least something in tune with the treacly hit ballads of lead actress (and Yang’s first wife) Tsai Chin. But instead of the pastoral, ever-blooming romance evoked in Li Bai’s lines, what we get is the dry chill of urban malaise.

[fe109]

They Live by Night (1948) 

[fe109]

“He was tall and thin, with short curly hair. He gazed out intensely through dark eyes, and his olive skin seemed to have been wrapped tightly around his bones.” This was how veteran Turkish director Lütfi Ö. Akad described his first impressions of the eager young man who walked into his Istanbul office one day in the fall of 1964. Yılmaz Güney, then a rising star of violent genre knockoffs, had come to pay his respects to the filmmaker who had made him want to go into the business in the first place. “I fed myself on your movies,” Güney told Akad. “I slept on top of the boxes holding the reels.” This was not an exaggeration: before he started acting, Güney, born to a Kurdish family in the southern town of Adana, had held a job transporting film reels from village to village in rural Turkey. He said that he had spent his youth dreaming of the day he would go to Istanbul and make movies with Akad, who had become one of the country’s most important directors through a variety of successful historical epics, neorealist melodramas, and romantic fables. Touched by Güney’s words, Akad apologized that this was no longer possible—suffering from burnout and professional frustration, he had effectively quit directing several years earlier. “No, brother,” Güney replied. “You’re going to make many more movies, right here. We’ll make them together.”

[fe109]

[fe109]

[fe109]

[fe109]

[fe109]

[fe109]

[fe109]