CUT LIKE A BUFFALO

“But it’s so heartbreaking and unnecessary how we lose things. From pure carelessness. Fires, wars. The Parthenon, used as a munitions storehouse. I guess that anything we manage to save from history is a miracle.”

[mx-luxs-blog]

  A strong, sharp look of contempt grew on Marie with the rhetoric that spilled from Isaiah’s mouth. Oh—how they’d argue. Argue. Berate. Squabble. Bicker. Scream. Fight. Even years of built up tolerance to just exchanging words with Isaiah hadn’t completely hardened them from the itches of aggression and belligerence.

  It was in Isaiah’s nature to be the way he was, Marie knew that, they knew that they knew that. But would that stop them from engaging with Isaiah?

  Nope.

  “Compassion isn’t easy,” they stated as if to reaffirm their tendency to be an unmanageable, uncaring jerk of a human. “She’s like her name—oh—everybody talks about her like she’s a frigid bitch and that’s the kind of person it takes to run an art museum! You don’t need to be nice at work, you need to be professional, and you might have some weird notion about family and children but if she can treat her children with kindness then at least you know she isn’t that much of a frigid bitch.”

  This was all out of Marie’s ass, as they had no children nor were they particularly close to their aloof family. They considered this along with the fact that Isaiah was without any progeny either.

  “You’re just speculating! You don’t know what’s best for the art either--,” they stopped, pausing to think over their choice of words. “You know I don’t even really know what’s best for the art at the end of the day but I know better than you. Every person and their mother is connected to art, especially all those beloved, overrated fools like Van Gogh. Are we obligated to just give a Van Gogh to someone because they’re in love? That’s just not feasible! It’s not how things work. Someone, with the best interest at heart, needs to preserve the artwork and not allow any harm to come to art’s legacy!”

  “That someone—thank you,” Marie paused their speech to take the coffee from the waitress. “Is Julie. I know you don’t agree with her because you’re at odds… but…”

  They sighed. “That’s just the way things are and I, for one, think those paintings are better suited at the museum than with the Barretts. They will not be pawned off—not if I have anything to say about it. That museum will not lose its legacy because it is an establishment with the public’s best interests of preserving art and artwork for whoever after we’re dead and gone.”

  They said it like it wasn’t even truthful—death was something so intangible to Marie. As far as they were concerned, they’d live forever, but with the only certainty in life being death (as how generously Isaiah reminded them practically every other time they spoke) they had become deluded. Technology and medicine knew no bounds—they had the means to pay for immortality when it came on the market. If it came on the market.

  Clearing their throat, they took a sip of coffee. Deep red acrylics sharp enough to cut held the creamy ceramic glass. Cut they would with those claws, but only when necessary.

  “You’re supposed to do your job,” they concluded, making eye contact with Isaiah. They always got into the habit of trying to be profound around Isaiah, as if to match the same sense of certainty he possessed. “Your job is to be a lawyer, and to argue the point in court. You can’t really do anything to change how art works.”

  “It’s fucked up, I know.”

[tildaswinton-daily]

Mercedes-Benz Special Sets the Standard: starring Tilda Swinton, dir. Roe Etheridge (2014)

[tildaswinton-daily]

Tilda Swinton for Vogue Italia 2007 by Peter Lindbergh.

[tildaswinton-daily]

Tilda Swinton by Milan Vukmirovic, 2013

[once-a-vogue]

British Vogue March 1992

Tilda Swinton

[tildaswinton-daily]

Tilda Swinton by Richard Phibbs, 2004 | Paper

[fashion-and-film]

Io sono l’amour (I Am Love, 2009)

[intothedarkwoods]

Tilda Swinton

photographed by Jason Bell

[mx-luxs-blog]

robbiguo:

Robbi’s fingers were so used to texting that her eyes didn’t even have to focus on the screen. Mid text she couldn’t help but glance at Marie and the phone they were holding. He was sure it was some sort of ironic antique, they couldn’t seriously consider it a viable mobile phone. The pace at which Apple and Samsung moved when it came to their technology was far too fast for most but Robbi was obsessed with keeping up. His parents were some of the highest ranked people in the mobile phone industry, period. And with that Robbi always had an in to test out prototypes and any new designs they had to offer. The blonde had a habit of really pushing any poor phone’s limitations so if they could pass her tests they’d do for public consumption.

“Oh no.. I mean that’d be pretty miraculous if I had that but no.. I mean I’m sure I’d have it floating around somewhere but– I just texted the girl I know in the building.” The young blonde said, half wanting to fill all silence with conversation, but noting and accepting the quick and clear questioning style that Marie seemed to prefer. 

“Carrier? Just AT&T.. It’s the model that makes the difference. The model has the most powerful receptor you can get on the market. You can’t actually get it yet, but it’ll be marketable soon. Deadzones aren’t so dead for me. I could climb Everest with this thing and still call my mom back in Korea, you know? Well– I haven’t tried that.. But you know, Maybe it’s possible.” The blonde found herself rambling again, wanting to make a good impression even considering the circumstances. “Is that.. Is that a iPhone 4? It’s just been so long since I’ve seen one of those.” Robbi moved in a little closer to inspect to the ancient artifact before glancing up and smiling at them. “You’re gonna want to upgrade.. I’m by no means telling you what to do, it’s just a suggestion.”

  The look the kid gave at Marie’s phone only made them more self-conscious. So what if they hadn’t gotten a new phone since 2010? Phones could last for five years or more—it worked perfectly fine and had all of Marie’s contacts, important dates, memos, and all manner of emails that they couldn’t bear to lose. There was a haunting fear of change in the prospect of getting a new phone, and while Marie would like to call themselves adaptable, their age was catching up to them, and their ability to cope with even the most minute alterations in lifestyle posed a huge hurdle for them. Fickle, to be sure, but in denial all the same.

  Squinting, they looked back to the kid. Who did he know in the building? A flipbook of faces flew through their mind—names, details, and occupations were hazy at best, but they were still unsure of any relation some young kid would have with the residents and businesses in the building. Then again, Marie didn’t know everybody, and who knows—there may as well be some young-start up on the sixth floor.

  Oh. They were quite indeed more technically adept than Marie—they never knew that it was the model that made any difference in how well the phone worked. iPhones and Androids were across all carriers, and Marie knew that they all acted differently, but they always attributed the disparity in coverage to the company rather than the model.

  As if the kid had read their mind, the comment about their phone only made Marie indignant. Clutching the phone in their hand, they answered “Perhaps—it works fine. I wouldn’t get a new phone unless something happened to this one. I don’t want to lose all of the information I have on this one either—it’s just not feasible to upgrade unless I have to.”

[mx-luxs-blog]

I hope you were being facetious--this painting is dreadful. 

[mx-luxs-blog]

kaufsman:

     Isaiah frowned slightly. Why did they care so much about his cases? At the time– or at any time, really– they were arguably the most boring thing about him. He shrugged. “The case with the Barretts is still open.” Idly, he began to turn the cup on the table, pulling it by the handle and watching the flecks of peppermint leaf swirl in the cup. “Umber really had an impeccable sense of timing with his resignation.”

     One of the many things in his own life that puzzled Isaiah endlessly was the Barrett v. Argent case. Speaking objectively, he couldn’t lose. As a lawyer, he was making easy money. He had a lucrative schedule, and considering all the help that Eden gave him, it almost felt unfair that he charged her for it.

     Maybe he continued to do so because he was selfish. Was it really selfish to desire so ardently to remain afloat in the capitalist cesspool of the United States? Realizing he had fallen silent, Isaiah said, “Frost was aptly named. I’ve never met a single person so absolutely devoid of compassion.” She had put up airs of concern at first. Maybe that was what had made the development so difficult to stomach. Julie had shown some genuine concern about what he and Eden had to say.

     At a drop of a hat, all that had changed.

     He took another sip of the tea, which didn’t at all taste better than before. He was still a bit upset with Marie for not answering his initial question about the phrase ‘fancy seeing you here’. It ate at him the more it remained neglected. How was he supposed to say something that he couldn’t even decide on the meaning of?

     “Taking them to court is tedious. I don’t want to do it, but if I’m going to do what’s best for Eden, then it’s the only option.” Right next to, of course, finding a way to take the Argent from Frost and handing paintings out on the street corner like they were newspapers. The idea was actually a bit amusing– art was meant to be free, after all. And not just financially. It was meant to be liberated of any confinement, to travel the world from hand to hand without any formalities.

     Isaiah’s restless hands drummed on the side of the cup.

     He wondered why he thought so often of the case with the Barretts, and more specifically, Eden herself. Maybe he was just captivated by stubborn things.

     Distantly, Isaiah thought about whether Eden thought about the case as much as he did.

  They nodded. Absorbing his words as the rush of momentum left them and their pulse slowed to a steady rhythm. But, it was one thing after another, and after the distress of lateness, a new matter of vexation materialized: the Barrett case and the lawsuit against the Mary C. Argent Museum. It wasn’t as if Marie was looking for something to argue with Isaiah with—lord only knew that every other word that left their mouth was a thinly veiled act of aggression—but they had been over this before. Marie was a staunch supporter of Julie—a fraternizer with the mysterious foreign woman who had been bestowed with the title of Director seemingly out of left field. When it came to the controversial lawsuit, Marie was of the opinion that the Barretts had no right to claim ownership to a painting owned by the museum. Taking a deep breath, they blinked.

  “He did, but there were a multitude of reasons why he resigned when he did,” they informed Isaiah, envisioning the past board meetings and the dreadful announcements. “He left several unattended matters for Julie to take care of… including this whole shenanigan with the Barretts…”

  “I wouldn’t say so,” they retorted in regards to Julie Frost. “Have you ever seen her with her husband? Her son? She’s a completely different person once you get to know her. Fred was a good man but he was too… loose—too carefree. All that giddiness was from drinking and you just know that’s why the Argent was having all sort of trouble…”

  Isaiah had been subject to dozens upon dozens of rants about the Argent—all courtesy of Marie. They denied any dislike of Mr. Umber, but they were polar opposites. Stiff from trauma and loss, Marie couldn’t understand the recklessness Mr. Umber engaged in when it came to museum security and preservation. His negligence didn’t go unnoticed, but more often than not, the curators and museum staff would carry on the museum like clockwork even if Mr. Umber wasn’t of a sober mind. It was decades of irksome mishaps, and Marie was relieved to see a professional take the museum under their wings.

  “If it’s tedious and you don’t want to do it, don’t do it.” Resting their head on their hand, they waited for a server to pass so that they could order. “I’m sure the paintings are better suited remaining at the museum anyway—“

  At the end of their sentence, they flagged down a waitress and ordered coffee.

[scorpiusrising-blog]

Another Day, Another Strike

[mx-luxs-blog]

edenrose-barrett:

“Let- ugh!- let go of me! I have every right to b- UGH!”

Her cries of dissent were cut short with the final shove against her back. Stumbling forward, she caught herself on the railing just in time to prevent a nasty tumble down the front steps of the museum, though the same couldn’t be said for her bag, which flew off of her, spilling all of its contents in the process. When she turned to face the men who’d strong-armed her, she opened her mouth to continue protesting, only to have the doors slammed in her face. Something seemed off; the security guards weren’t usually this rough with her, even with Julie breathing down their necks. She must’ve hired some new muscle, ones that weren’t quite used to Eden’s fiery displays, but they’d grow accustomed to her sooner or later. This was, after all, the fifth weekend in a row that she’d gotten thrown out of the Argent.

Cursing to herself, she let go of the railing and began to pick up her things, most of which now littered the pavement in front of the Argent. She was half tempted to leave the things in an effort to make the museum seem somehow trashier, but it was important things that had been spilt, and she hated the thought of Julie seeing them and smirking that icy, calculated grin of hers in triumph.Just thinking about it was enough to incite her ire. So, she continued picking up her things and shoving them into the recesses of her old, worn out purse. She groaned, continuing down the stairs, and reached for the last slip of paper that she could see before finally slinging the bag back over her shoulder and walking away from the building that held her family’s heirlooms captive.

She didn’t make it more than twenty steps away, however, before running her hand through her hair and noticing the absence of one of her earrings.

“Shit. Shit shit shit” she repeated the word under her breath like a mantra as she held her ear and looked around, trying to find the small diamond post. “Shit.” It didn’t take long for her to realize that it must’ve fallen out during the altercation, and she felt her stomach drop. Frantic, she turned around and grabbed the first person she saw by she shoulders, forcing them to stop and listen to her.

“Hey! You have to help me!”

  Being on the board of directors wasn’t really much of a job for Marie beyond some figurehead position. Sure, they were a voice and a vote when it came to the deliberations of what was in best interest for the museum, but their vote more or less was with Julie’s agenda. Unashamedly, too, as there was too much going on in Marie’s life for them to try and sift through the politics of the Argent (despite their involvement with the museum for decades at this point) to make an informed decision. They weren’t that dim on the matters of the museum, but they couldn’t bring themselves to care… most of the time.

  Leaving the building just as unstimulated as they entered, Marie took a rare gander of the street view. Fifteen minutes was all they had before they needed to leave for their next appointment, and while their ride would be arriving in minutes they couldn’t help but pause at the top of the steps before they descended. Cold concrete and marble decorated the outside of the Argent—the same materials since the renovations in the 80’s that Marie could distinctly remember. Looking up into the eaves, they could vividly place the scaffolding and the translucent white tarps that descended down to cover up the work in progress. High-waisted jeans, multicolored jumpsuits, and teased out hair could be seen everywhere, and while Marie imagined it, when they looked down to the street everything looked the same as it had just moments ago—duller, with a loss of luster.

  Screwing their mouth into a contorted shape in contemplation, Marie was ready to leave their reverie before they were grabbed by a young woman. Startled, they stopped, offended by the physicality the woman engaged in with them. “Excuse me?” they responded, taking a step back away from the woman’s grip. “I don’t have to do anything.”

[mx-luxs-blog]

kaufsman:

    Maybe the Coral Café was an obvious choice.

    Maybe it was the only café in town that Isaiah had deemed worth of his presence.

    Maybe, he just hadn’t put that much thought into the location at all.

    See, one of the few pleasantries in Isaiah’s life which he absolutely could not miss out on was his weekly tea with Marie. The two of them had quite a history together, and it was arguably one of the more healthy relationships that he had found himself in during his lifetime. To be entirely honest, Isaiah wasn’t quite entirely sure when he’d picked up the habit of getting tea with them. He didn’t quite like tea, and routine bored him, but he found himself waiting for Marie at the Coral every week, a cup of whatever the barista on shift favored sitting in front of him.

    And it was nice.

    Besides, it was helpful to let out his thoughts in a constructive way from time to time. As fun as it was to forget about whatever ailed him with some pill and a friendly reminder that his perception of the universe as a whole was merely an illusion, he didn’t mind speaking with someone else about it on occasion. But was Marie a friend? The question carried a bit of weight, and he wasn’t entirely sure what the answer was. Isaiah was aware of how atypical he was, of how obtuse he could be. Before he considered anyone a friend, he had to first ask if they could even consider him worth befriending.

    For the time being, both questions remained unanswered.

    As if on cue (as most things in Isaiah’s life had an affinity for happening), Marie arrived. They had an air of decisiveness about them, as they always did, like even every breath they took was calculated and scheduled to the millisecond. Isaiah took a sip of his tea. Peppermint? His tongue and throat burned when he swallowed it, but he couldn’t find himself in a position to care. When they approached him, he looked down at his tea as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire restaurant.

    “Fancy running into you here.” Before they could respond, he said, “You know, I’m not even sure what that means. There are– what? five different ways of interpreting it?” Looking up at them, he finally said,  “How are you?”

  Lateness was a terrible habit. A sign of unprofessionalism and poor planning skills that marked someone as flimsy—unreliable. How upset Marie would get with every passing minute they had to endure before they arrived at their destination later than anticipated. Even accounting for the unpredictability of traffic, the reason for Marie’s consistent tardiness was found in their work. Busy as ever yet twice as bored—Marie had come to a terrible predicament in their life:

  Productivity was no longer optional with the failings of the museum and the gallery.

  The notion of wealth was wildly skewed for Marie, who, compared to any other American was doing quite well for themselves, yet with recession and condensing of assets, they were left with much to be desired.

  Sighing and wiping away at their fatigued complexion, Marie consoled themselves by reiterating that it was just Isaiah. Just Isaiah—who they were sure didn’t believe in time to begin with. He could easily understand why they were going to be late, and could forgive them given how much tardiness irked them to their very core.

  They exited the car swiftly as it pulled up to Coral Café. As much as Marie wanted to distance themselves from Isaiah’s grand notions of solipsism and cosmic facades, they certainly acted like they were the center of the universe whenever they were out in public. Nobody else existed, and they’d move through any space with a righteous authority as deemed by their class.

  Nevertheless, Marie was content to finally arrive at the café. It was easy enough identifying the tall, lonely man known as Isaiah Kaufman out of the swaths of patrons that gave the coffeehouse its ambience. Sliding into the seat across from him, they took of their sunglasses, revealing frayed features and sunken eyes.

  “Fine—I’m doing fine,” they were quick to retort after a few moments had passed from the question. “Sorry I’m so late—things have been… hectic.”

  Absentmindedly grabbing the menu, their eyes perused the selection of beverages. “Any interesting developments in your cases since we last spoke?”

[tildaswinton-daily]

Tilda Swinton by Hong Jang Hyun, August 2015 | Vogue Korea

[feewaybill]

Visit Original Link

Digging in the Dirt | Peter Gabriel

Us, 1992

[anneselliot]

Eve is graceful, luminous and impeccably dressed. She wears western boots and hats, and vintage white denim jackets with matching slim jeans. Her hair is pale blonde, her skin nearly translucent white, and her lips often colored deep red with lipstick. Several thousand years older than Adam, Eve possesses an exuberant appreciation for eternal consciousness. She believes their immortality is a great gift not to be squandered and that life, though precarious and fragile, is too far precious to be wasted.

[15x20]

more street style here ♡