been years. still here, still missing.
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@kaash
been years. still here, still missing.
"...locked in a love that wore everybody out."
--Beloved, Toni Morrison
Saroj Khan, photographed by Dayanita Singh.
I’m enthralled.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
Awa Province, Naruto Whirlpools(Detail) - Hiroshige Utagawa , 1850s
Japanese, 1797 - 1858
Woodblock Print
Linda Spierings and Grace Jones wearing Azzedine Alaïa - “Mode en France” directed by William Klein (1984)
When I tell people we do feathers for clothes, they hardly think it’s possible,” Charles-Donatien said one morning, in his studio. “They think, Oh, that must be for stage shows.” He picked up a pair of tweezers and extracted a pink ostrich feather from a small mound on his desk. He dabbed the quill in glue and affixed it to an intricate arrangement on the flap of a satin handbag by Roger Vivier, then paused to vape and assess. A Bach flute concerto played in the background, the notes flitting about in a ghostly flock. “Beauty is never enough,” he said. “Meaning is more important. If something catches people’s eyes enough to make them move around it, they will build a story around it. And that will not just be about beauty.
Burkhard Bilger profiles the last Parisian plumassier
Above: From Kawakubo’s “Blue Witch” collection, SS 2016
Below: Kawakubo,18th-Century Punk, AW 2016–17
From Kawakubo’s "Broken Bride", AW 2005–2006
From Rei Kawakubo’s exhibit at the Met this year.
nothing vast enters the lives of mortals without ruin
from Antigonick by Sophokles, trans. by Anne Carson (via theclassicsreader)
the brocken
When he was not much more than a teenager, Thomas de Quincey went to the Lake District. He was intending to visit the home of his hero, William Wordsworth. After much agonising De Quincey had eventually written to him, pledging his friendship in his typically overwrought, mannered style. The poet responded graciously, and gave what was effectively an open invitation for Thomas to stop by whenever he was in the area. And so he did. But the sight of Dove Cottage was too much for him. De Quincey stole away – he left without so much as a greeting.
This is a very familiar feeling to me. I feel it intensely, often with regards to anything I care about, and sometimes with things that are entirely inconsequential. I felt it just the other day in a mild form when going in to a new coffee shop for the first time; it was somehow so much worse because I’d walked past this shop what must be a thousand times, and now I was going in there to buy something new; and what business had I doing that? I am, after all, the person who walks away from opportunities. Would it not be easier to walk away? And frequently, I do.
The funny thing is that years later, De Quincey came back. And he and Wordsworth became friends for years. De Quincey even came to live in that place he’d once loved and feared, Dove Cottage. He lived there until the place became so full of books that for a while the house was used for nothing other than his library. All through his life books seemed to replicate and subdivide around him, forming new libraries within libraries wherever he stayed, new walls and halls of stacked paper.
De Quincey’s relationship with the Wordsworths was complicated. As a younger man, he was so close to them as to almost be part of the family. He was good with their children. But later, things degraded; there was the difficult co-production of a political pamphlet, with William writing and Thomas editing. There was the time De Quincey cut down the orchard at Dove Cottage, beloved by the Wordsworths. And De Quincey never quite forgave their contempt towards his wife, Margaret Simpson, the daughter of a local farmer.
He felt, in short, that they were ungrateful. He had given them much in the way of time and attention over the years and had received little in kind. But his position was much of his own making. His use of opium is now perhaps the thing for which he is best known, if only because his experience of it led to his most acclaimed writing. But until you read an account of his life it is perhaps difficult to understand the extent to which he gave his life over to the drug. In his work opium was a way of seeing; it’s harder to find within that the way of being that carried him from day to day.
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watching Steins;Gate has been a very startling experience overall; we underestimate the work of plot so much, i realised, or certainly i do, in terms of affective impact. it also forced me to think about how the act of missing someone is a trick of time. wanting to be close to someone who is ‘far’ away from us has as much to do with the gestures of time as distance--we feel distance more, or we say we do, but what we really seem to be missing is time, and its leap, as makise kurisu here would say, from just beyond another world line.
in any case, i am moved. so very moved.
south bank, london.
OMONDI AW15
Judnick Mayard: You’ve stated publicly that you will not show at Fashion Week. Can you speak about why?
Recho Omondi: Because it’s a dead format. Quote that if you quote anything. You’re hustling backwards. You don’t need to do them shows. What you need to do is get these people those JPEGS, get them GIFS. Get them that PDF and stop doing these shows. Not to say, that it doesn’t work for some people. It’s just that the space has become overcrowded. If I was an old brand that had been around and built a traditional wholesale I probably would be doing shows, or at least the market appointments. I didn’t want a show because I didn’t feel like it was necessary. For me, it was not necessary and a lot more trouble than it was worth.