Kati Nescher, skin by herself and hair by Luigi Murenu, don’t know where the flowers come from, published in (or on) What’s Contemporary (Whatscontemporary.com). She actually shares this short story with four others, including Saskia. I like both but like Kati better here because Saskia looks like a fish to water and Kati a fish that had to grow lungs.
Got no shadow of a clue how and why I was foolish enough to overlook that one. Or, to make it simple, I may have spent too much time at the hospital trying to repair a broken ankle. Do not think I’m stuffed with bad memories, that’s the kind of places you always find a few unexpected minutes of sweetness left or right. Most likely taking place in the middle of my first post-op night when the young nurse with eyes filled with loveful fears gently asks me if her warm hand is allowed to double-check if I’m not turning into a water bomb. Obviously, no one is feeding a lust for some past-midnight explosion, not even me, and the mellow-eyed brunette turned into the best painkiller ever.
I slowly woke up this morning, sipping the same old coffee still tasting the same despite of my scars and these six bits of iron calling my right foot home, thinking of this singular idea of comfort zone. The pleasure you may feel when someone rushes in to kick you out of it and the equally dazzling sensation of witnessing somebody else suddenly forced to evolve outside of his friendly nest. Like walking barefoot on wet asphalt, you may be afraid when your skin first meets the unwelcoming ground but as soon as you can get over it, you’re fine ready for a delightful walk. Same goes for models and photographers. Take them away from their glossy habits and see what happens. Take Kati Nescher away from Vogue Germany, sit back and enjoy the show (if you still can’t hear any drumroll playing, then pull her a little further away).
Sometimes you think it’s disgusting, sometimes your flesh doesn’t agree with your prude thoughts. Sometimes you want to see more and the day after your imagination is just enough. Tonight you feed yourself, indulge your eyes with every piece of sugary shit coming across your lonely road, tomorrow you’ll see if you rave or vomit, fly or skydive, sing or stutter, walk or tiptoe. That’s Daphne Groeneveld, flowers, ropes and tears of a clown. Clowns suck but Paola Kudacki doesn’t care. Neither do I.
And she wasted her eyes around looking at those who were still surrounding her shivering body. The light was raw and the tramway was singing that melody everyone begs hard to forget, high-pitched whines and loud whispers. She cringed and fell on the cold floor, the others were too drunk to put two lonesome words back to back. Distorted mouths and words, flowing in the heavy air of a room forever ignoring the meaning of a window. Music was as bad as bad can exist or be imagined, she wanted to exit. To escape. To disappear for a while, a longer while or a shorter eternity, but couldn’t go further than the toilets door, a plain white door that doesn’t even want to say hello, how are you, to her. She was a pink fish, just a lovely pretty pink fish out of water, struggling to put something else than rotten smoke in her archaic lungs. She yelled, but no sound managed to reach any other ear than her own reddish ones, exhausted pieces of flesh dreaming of a pillow talk. The evening ended in that small square bathroom, face to face with this dirty miror reflecting her disarray. She gasped, thought she should take enough painkillers to erase every inch of memories sticking to her brain but knew deep inside she was just the prettiest herring in town who spends her free time kissing strangers and crying in public.
Corinna Ingenleuf in whatever magazine, my memories are pretty short today (and the day before, even shorter). Or maybe is that me, I don’t want to remember much and want instead to forget fast. Got no shadow of a clue. Too drunk to smile, too dumb to cry. Beautiful pictures are all what remain active. And that smell is absolutely no smell, just a broken bit of a dream.
Dorothea by Peter Farago for Saga Magazine. After I wrote my previous piece, I did a little research and stumbled upon this image. Can’t figure out or remember what was Saga but thought Dorothea’s work visually suits my current inspirations for insane little stories I write today. Can’t even tell what inspires me exactly when I start them. Her face, the weather, the tea, the vanilla from the tea, the pepper on the pizza, the conversations I had or didn’t have, the noise or the lack of light. I guess if I knew it, I wouldn’t do it and would indulge with meatballs and smashed potatoes instead.
She had a kink in her back and thought she was a butterfly. She wanted to go buy tobacco but couldn’t decide herself to cross the door. Someone advised her to take a squirter with her, just in case. She went away and took a sponge with her as well, to keep something smooth close to her silhouette. It was deep in the afternoon and she could barely breathe, despite the weather was completely gruesome. Might be in the air, in the very air she was breathing when she walked down the street with the shop that sells the tobacco she was fancying; with the water pistol in her handbag and the small sponge in her pocket. Every ten steps, she needed to touch and squeeze the sponge so she knew she was alive and awake and no evil had approached her yet. She had other plans for that day but you don’t always choose what to do, you often let laziness or despair decide for you when you lack sleep and distance. She bumped into a man and it made him smile. He told her to talk to his chalk because his prick is sick. She didn’t understand and thought he had no soul, thought it was the cutest thing on earth. He took her hand and she let him do, they went back to her flat and she forgot about the tobacco. As soon as they were inside, they got undressed. He called her tits ugly and said she was his queen without a crown. She liked these two ideas a lot, smiled and showed her yellow teeth. She remembered she had nothing to smoke and asked him for a cigarette. He replied he only have chalk in his purple jacket. She smiled and showed her yellow teeth again and accepted his offer. They smoked chalk. They chainsmoked till the end of times and they forgot to have kids in their wonderland.
Dorothea Barth-Jörgensen by Collier Schorr. I saw this morning she was at Victoria’s Secret and immediately remembered this black and white photographs from Document Magazine. Immediately thought she looks loafs better topless and smileless than sporting some crummy underwear and ultrabrite smirk. As you know I’m odd, I feel allowed to let you know her face also reminds of a thursday morning in New York City. It was raining, they were running, they all wanted to kill me with their umbrellas and I was so wet I thought I had soup in my sneakers. I dashed into the first McDonald’s I saw and ordered a cup of coffee. They gave me something dark and syrupy that smelled like hazelnut-flavored gasoline. This morning, saw the same rain when I opened the curtains. Wanted a glass of bourbon with two ice cubes but only had regular black coffee with toothpaste.
Poor little baby, out of her element. Out of tune and almost out of order. But she’s got bucks in her pockets and no holes in her soles. She can grab some cigs at the pharmacy at half past midnight. She doesn’t have to sing to get noticed and doesn’t have to get noticed to earn enough to eat something else than cheap salad. She may suffer from something but her eyes won’t tell, her lips won’t tell, her dollars and cents won’t tell, her oversized nipples and mellow breasts won’t tell. Maybe, she wants to go to the restaurant and have a slice of pizza like everyone wants on saturday, for lunch, then walk on wet pavement, cross the road, push a door and buy herself something to cover her bare chest. Or maybe not. Maybe, she feels good and we don’t have to know. We are fated to ignore and imagine a small story to replace the forbidden truth. Maybe, she wanted to have some beer for breakfast instead of another cup of tasteless coffee, like me. Maybe, she is just like me, she has a few dreams, a lot of nightmares and no link left with reality. She is as awesome as absurd.
Beware, nudity involved, she said with a huge smile. Jana Knauerova by Ryan Mikail. And I do truly, and bloodily endlessly, love these models who nurture a certain kind of obsession for what they do when they get to kiss a camera one way or another. Jana is one of the wittiest I’ve ever interviewed in one of my previous lives. She even liked my scarf which is a bonus. It was a bad day but her bleached hair was like a second sunshine. Had too much budweizer the day before, had fever, but she made me smile again.
Have known a couple, myself. A few souls that feel wicked enough to consider modeling with another gaze. Women who model with their guts. Give hundred percent, sold themselves to take a better picture. I like the absolute, I love it. I taste and enjoy it every time I can. Guts are pretty, guts are sexy. Guts and blood are all I love to see, to watch carefully. They are my delight, kill me if you dislike. I do appreciate clean things but can’t fall for them. I need a certain dose of dirt, healthy dirt, where beauty begins and belongs to. The shivering at the start, the bones moving, the goosebumps, the flimsy and flirty skin. It takes guts and dirt to make a great image, to get rid of all these stupid ideas that stick to minds just to pollute. It takes hair, it takes nipples, it takes heart flesh and vagina depths. It takes to surrender, to let it go, to forget what’s surrounding cause we never really know. It takes all your cells, your intimacy, your everything to let it out. We want to see the inside out. Penetrate, through a gaze, stolen one. Through a motion, a hand, an arm, ten toes. I’m still looking for all the daring ones. Feel like a hunter, with sand in my shoes and an aching backbone. I spend my nights up with wine in my coffee cup. It’s tuesday morning already and you’re all geniuses. You ignore it but I don’t want to close my eyes. Ladies, you suck my soul and make my reality less hideous as it was yesterday. A million fucking thanks.
Valerija Kelava by Philip Gay. Now I can say that Mixt(e) is born again. And I’m not dead yet. I’ve recently noticed a certain website seems allergic to nudity, full or partial. Can agree it might not be everyone’s cup of tea and then, steer clear from fashion stories involving naked bodies as main theme but what caught my attention is how two topless pictures were removed from their respective editorials. Odd choice or was that the advertisers who feel uncomfortable with skin and flesh. Funny to me as they don’t seem to care about all these women with open mouths, faking an orgasm, as long as they wear an evening gown. No place for butts and bosoms, exit all the nipples and welcome sequins, pattern and other cheesy ruffles. I’ve always found nudity less disturbing than overretouched faces and legs, less prurient than an open mouth plus sleazy gaze combo wrapped in couture. No amount of money will ever manage to change my mind on this and advertisers can go brush their teeth.
Was thinking of what’s wrong with asses and butts, navels and nipples, boobs and belly buttons, flesh in general, skin in particular. Need to stop here for five minutes and light a cigarette, after a round of chainsmoking I’ll be more inspired to craft that crap. Wondering why all these yellow smiles when it gets tongue in cheek. Even red flowers do have a crush for november, bright dots on a grey background. Hot spots, top slots, hot to trot and you get me babbling and stuttering all over again. Is it party time already. Hell yeah. Or no. Or do I care or not. I guess the second option does it better, better partying like nuts and bananas and strawberries and apples and pies alone than switching on the television to put your brain to rest. Midday treat, when that’s all you’ve got left. And there she comes, my imagination goes wild. Comes like a snake, a fish, a dried up mermaid whipping on sand and grass and stones. And black became beige, and the sky fell on my hair so suddenly I thought it was the end of the world. Worth a walk, to see if I’m still real. Let’s try and check and then I’ll comb her hair till I get bored, touch and taste the jelly to make sure it’s as good as it looks. I’m starting to think I’m losing grip and realise how late I am to be aware of something that is here for about ten years already. The alarm clock is down, might be.
Ehren Dorsey by Attilio d’Agostino, gorgeous team on the rocks and wild water flowing by. I don’t know you too but thanks for these words. Just brilliantly written and you gave me my best title in a long while. Shall we team up, I write the bullshit and you put a nice title on the top of that crap? I do like the idea. I think it’s been quite some time I hadn’t put my dirty feet on a tumblr page and yesterday saw that. You said thanks, I can say the same. Just feeling slightly dumb and mad it took me three weeks to know about that, but I did smile as well. Congrats.
Got a headache. But I’m happy. Happy Headache sounds better than Halloween. Won ten effing euros at the casino yesterday evening and that was enough to pay a pizza for three. Turkish sausage is all the rage, never ate something tastier than that and felt bad I had to puke afterward. Got no voice anymore, sang too much too fast too high. On the mountain, or that was a bit of it. I was a model last night too, funny me sitting on the chair, smiling like a werewolf looking at the moon. Looking at the world go by and hearing his stomach yell for blood. Kids had pinky hair, I just had it greasy. Pepper and salt. And red wine, and pills and we just had a flight. The girl who opened the door had no bra and I must say it suits her grey tee shirt better than another round of ugly lingerie. I hate lingerie, anyway. The most stupid thing ever invented and I don’t even know why. Or maybe that’s for the girls who are on the cover of Vogue Italia. Did you notice how they complain about that? Poor Kate, poor miss Upton, life is hard when you get to get your face on the cover of some glossy stuff. Better stay undercover, underground, under the Niagara Falls or something. Still, my crazy self doesn’t get the fuss. We do not even see that much on that bloody cover, we just see what Meisel wanted to show and he is quite secretive about it. So what. Have a shower or take a nap if you’re not glad with what your eyes have caught. Tush megazine just released its latest issue and there are boobs (big ones do suck, actually) and tits (big ones I don’t mind, actually) once again but there is a glittering bag on the model’s face. I’m curious to know who she is and which agency will be proud of its girl who just graced a cover without her face. My crazy self still doesn’t get anything at all. Why tits and no eyes, no smile, no grin, no chin. Makes me think of that thing, starting my own magazine. Got already some wicked wankers on board but need more. Collaborators wanted, no matter who they are and what they do.
But the bite is hot. Ali Michael by Guy Aroch for the Block. It seems she’s just moved to another agency again. You know what? Couldn’t care less. Care about what I see, the whispers and hisses are too cheap for my ears. Just love how she does now, how she went from sugary teenyvoguish smiles to motel moments and forgot her pants on her way. Definitely appreciate the blossoming, the distance in her eyes, the quiet storm brewing under her hair. Took some pills last night, too bad it wasn’t in a hotel room but the carpet is such a nice place to sleep. Have you ever tried Solian, that’s just a direct flight to other heights. The tramway is singing and I walk happily.
Don’t testino me. Don’t mertandmarcus me. Don’t even try to emmanuellealt me. Don’t give up the fight, don’t let it go. Don’t let the nowness eat it all, don’t leave it to the hunger to decide. Don’t smoke your soul, and hide yourself, need no reason and no reason is for free. Don’t need wings to dive, and air to sink. Don’t need stuff like they do, gloss and paper and glue. Foreign hearts, made of stone, rude and rough and eager. The bitterness of yesteryears, forbidden taste of the night after, when you wake up at six in the eve swimming in your sweat. Turn off the lights, no dream, no way to get in. No way to go out, no exit, no escape. Rotten fruits of love, dead and peaceful on the frozen ground. Leaves that taste like at home alone, when you dip them in warm water. Foam hiding the outrance, inner fog and smashed peas. Shampoo dripping on the tub, stuttering lights. Wet fingers. Deadringers. Doppelgängers. And the army went on, and the earth has never been so cold. Trouble visions, divisions, distortions all the way. And she stopped, to heat it up. And he asked. May I smoke in your room, may I smoke in your room. Then fell on the floor, rolled from the seat. She laughed loud. It was ringing. Ringing out.
Mario Sorrenti’s ode to Guinevere van Seenus for Ten Magazine, from two years ago. Late echo, eclipse of ideas. Coal black lights, crow black smiles. Cycles, circle of seasons overcoming the death of all ideals. Death as the fuel of life, the food for the mood of a broken fool. The icing on the cake, at the carnival of cannibals, we’re all magnificent maneaters indulging with womb meat and parmiggiano reggiano. And the high-pitched voice of the loveless child hissing at my ear: “Gawky, gawky duckling; growing through an onion; loathe is where you mind it; listen to your warts”. So sweet and swish, like feet and fish.
You sell vintage tears at the flea market, to get rid of desirable memories. The honey drops of past better days have dried under the bitter sun of october. You dress yourself with fallen leaves and let the masses think you’re a grasshopper rescued from fame and fate, forgiving all the disbelievers for their lack of faith in your insanity. You’ve crossed the line once for good, after going back and forth dancing with your shadow and cheap dew is now available for free, you got your chance to own your own. Waving your hand at the clouds passing by, you came to realize dusk is not that far, another wasted day gets pretty close to its deadline. The blue coat is turning darker; thick, fake velvet on miles and miles. Not a single noise able to disturb this litany of silence, not a single bruise to disturb your walk yet the landscape doesn’t change on your way. The same road, the same dusty asphalt, white marks in the middle, pale scars of civilization on the raped skin of the wild. The moon is tuned to kiss the cactus and feel the needles penetrate its bosom, fathom its flesh with the sole motivation to reach an uncertain end. The moon cringes as the cactus craves, their embrace withers. The odd waltz of the unlikely lovers fades to an equally rummy still life laying on the sidewalk. I’m watching them copulate then die, comfortably seated at the back of the cab, disregarding the driver and spoiling my eyes. Thinking of you, thinking you were me. Thinking I could guess what you’re thinking of, or dreaming you were feeling what I’m feeling and our thoughts would cross on this lightless night spent mourning a sunken moon.
I dislike runway images with all my might so, I spent an extra bunch of fifteen minutes searching for and finding photographs I like, even when they step off topic and off the beaten tracks of yesterday’s catwalk. Kati Nescher, above, current icon of the brand with Hedi, without Stefano, without Yves, without Rive Gauche and with a lot of models who made no sense gathered at the same show yet made a nice impression. I’m not going to pretend I’m a specialist of Saint Laurent’s archives, I don’t even own an opinion on the garments and the way they were put together and I couldn’t care less about the references. I’m just far more inspired by SLP than Dior these days.
Vipers and other snakes can whistle and whisper, Cat’s back on tracks and looks as gorgeous and lethal as a spider orchid. With a little less hair and a little more ink under her skin, she hadn’t lost one inch of this peculiar mix of classicism and vulgarity that made her beauty as precious and perennial as the scent of skin. Picture from Vogue Australia by Benny Horne, soon to be renamed Vogue McNeil.
Alison “Phoenix” Nix, keep on rolling, keep on rocking and whirling and whooping. Keep it going, queen of the ring as a blonde and paper goddess as a brunette. Picture from Marie Claire Italia by Rennio Maifredi, old school, good vibrations before the fashion floor started to shiver under her feet again.
It’s not very trendy to be called Yves in 2012, that’s the first lesson of the month. And when I first heard some rumors about the cast, I was getting nervous, pretending to care. I didn’t pay much attention to all these things but at a certain moment, last night, I wanted Pilati back with his strawberry prints and his little things without importance and without compromises. Got nothing against Mister Slimane, I even like his redundant photography and I don’t notice the musical chairs any longer but this made me feel dizzy all of a sudden, enough to grab a glass of red wine and try to let it go without a thought. I was pleasantly surprised, after this short moment of loss. If nothing was worth getting excited, if nothing grew high enough to turn me on again, nothing went as wrong as I suddenly feared some minutes before. It’s been a while my eyes don’t see the clothes anymore and Hedi’s vision of Saint Laurent didn’t exactly bring them back on the map, the landscape remained the same it was yesterday and the day before. But I saw models, even those hidden behind the unnecessary and oversized hats. Try to disturb me, I’ll look twice closer. Try to entice me, I’ll run away twice as fast as I’d usually do, it’ll give me feet, legs, wheels, wings. So, we had Nix living her brand new platinum life, we had McNeil and her translucent top teasing her tits yet no trace of a tattoo, Georgia Hilmer who I thought was Ann Kenny and fortunately no mirage of a Kirby (a mistaken sight would have left me sleepless, for the record), Julia Nobis who went from her official christmas tree status to brave ball opener, Lily McMenamy who has enough muscle on her upper legs to outperform her own mother when it comes to jumping against walls, Ewa Wladymiruk, Magdalena Jasek, Kati Nescher who looks better on the campaign visuals than in tuxedo, Codie Young, Louise Parker, Caitlin Holleran, Grace Mahary and I’m getting too tired to keep the list going on, hope no highlights were overlooked or it would mean one liter of coffee a day is not enough. Oh, they actually are and I’ll get another round of that blackish liquid in my dirty cup, I always like to mention Aymeline Valade and I’m forced to confess I do like Joséphine Le Tutour in that outfit but I have no passion for name dropping. I’ll just stop right here and bag it up like that: I still miss Yves in the brand’s name, still miss Stefano and his whomped-up strawberries, I prefer Hedi with a camera and exclusive bookings give me so much nausea that my sinuses started to hurt badly. But I’d probably sound like the meanest moron pretending I didn’t enjoy the cast. I’ll probably roast in hell for this. Don’t really care, I already knew it.
It’s sad when the bottle gets empty. I don’t know and have troubles to care. Lindsey by Terry, living in another world I have approached without touching. My bloody fingers, scars of cigarettes, scars I don’t remember but hurt nonetheless. Look at me, enjoy the disaster, feel the heat and love the cold. Love the waves, lick them all. Bye, see you later and love you in time. I’ll pay a tribute to all hairdressers of the world this weekend but let me prepare my speech, I ran out of insanities, ran out of words. I’m having sex with the sidewalk and fell in love with a spider. I’m here, you’re elsewhere. We’re all tramps willing to steal a piece of attention. It’s one buck and half at the grocery next door. Gotta buy that, gotta swallow my pride meanwhile.
Codie Young by Stevie and Mada that I don’t know yet should. I love the buffalo head and green carpet, reminds me of some summer memories. Empty bottles, empty evenings, full brains and hard mornings. Moaning. Crawling back to where I belong. Or not, or not.
Valerija Kelava by Sofia Sanchez and Mauro Mongiello (always a pleasure), for Document Magazine (bland name, bold photographs), put in style by Chloe Kerman (worth to mention). Good to see this, during the collection weeks, to remind me how much clothes are totally unnecessary. Garments are accesories among accesories and I prefer Dsquared to Prada for that very same reason. Just close your eyes and let an army of dwarves kiss your feet (five feet, eight inches and a lonely half is so casually small, these rainy days). You’re alive, you deserve such a treat.
Dovile Virsilaite by Philip Gay, for Velvet Magazine. She yawns as much as me, if only I could feel awesome when I get tired. I’m literally worn out, physically and mentally. primitively exhausted. I’m not complaining, just exposing bare facts. Naked truths again little everyday lies. Feels better when you have visuals to hold the hand of your ideas, when you have a backdoor to escape. Goodnight fashion, sleep in peace till someone gently wakes you up again. In one day, one month or one decade.