moonstruck reflections, partial immersion & darling cultus dollies

stregata dalla luna:


A room with a view and something more...I'm haunted and obsessed as Endymion; a slave to your flux, waning & gravities...really....I just want to stare at you and feel like a monkey.

...based on chemical analysis by NASA, the orbital satellite infusions of Aedes De Venutas' 'Odeur de Lune' will have to suffice. ...Upon exploration, you may very well renew your faith through your senses.


As a matter of faith, water has always been subject in ritual and practice, both literally and metaphorically. Being a key element in the structure of our existence, no one is surprised...interested, yes, surprised, no. From the Bahá'í Faith of 19th Century Persia, with importance stressed on ecological balance, to Buddhist funeral rites wherein a bowl of water is overfilled and words recant the cycle of earth's wet bounty in relation to the winding truths of reincarnation, to the vast and broad baptism cultures of Christianity, to the seven sacred rivers of the Hindu faith to the ritual purity of prayer for Islam and the living waters of Mikveh and Red Sea tomes of Judaism, to the sacramental cleansing before appeals to Shinto Kamis and the purification rites and rituals of Zoroastrianism, who believe water is purity incarnate....

Everywhere it is around us; inside of us. Bound. The percentage in our bodies and the percentage on our planet - dazzlingly approximate. I worship at the temple of soak and weightlessness. Silence and scent. Low light and the steady pulse of my insides as I lay partially immersed.



From the mouth of magnificence:


On the heels of Waning and Water comes Want. From one purity to another we find Viktor & Rolf's lilliputian couture renditions:


Fuck you, Blythe. I adore creepy dolls, but these 'Russian Dolls' are too precious. I love these perennial purveyors of precious dark packages, black-hole fashions & chrome-caged statuary. (wooden shoes & all) LOVE. They've professed Tilda Swinton (yeathatsher) as their muse - of course. Oh, you didn't know I'm in love with her. She's one of the most striking and steely emotive actresses...ever. Divinity.



...enough with the fashion porn...

lexicon conceptions & maritime miniatures

"I am the happy victim of books" - Karl Lagerfield


I've spent the better part of the week holed-up with a horrid cold, rapidly consuming page after page of fantasy-cum-reality interiors, amongst other things like: tea & soup. I've amassed a sound collection of books over the years, and I adore every aspect of the home library, particularly creative storage ideas. I'd like to share some photos on that theme (!enjoy!) :

At times I want to be buried! Really though, a sea of bound works is soooo appealing. Comfortable spaces, seating...lighting. Inspiration.


from there to here:

"Jonah" winter, 2006

The small, splintery & rusted effigies John Taylor has created are nothing if not wondrous.

"Working with found objects collected from around his southern California surroundings, John works in his garage on evenings and weekends. His ships are interpretations rather than models, as John works from a particular feeling he may get and want to convey from an archived image found in a book or on the internet. His ships look as if they have been buried or under water for half a century, but their near-disintegrated appearance showcase his ability to fearlessly manipulate detritus, and also display a well thought out methodology."

"Gypsy Queen" 2006

Mr. Taylor's work resonates languidly throughout my grey matter...faring tidal surges and stilled, humid evenings adrift along winding, muddy waters. His pieces show the weathered, abandoned remains of some of the worlds most famous vessels. Not necessarily how they are...or how they were, they reside somewhere forgotten; delicately decayed. Upon exploration, my mind brightened at the recollection of my Grandparent's summer home on the reservoir in the Berkshires and their assortment of regal yet diminutive ships housed over the fire...and all the lazy afternoons spent playing amidst the treasures they'd amassed over the years they spent together.

Every detail is careful, poignant and somehow restrained in it's sense of dereliction. Perfect. I was delighted to happen upon an old and very cherished memory within the assortment of liners, schooners, ferries, arcs and such:


"Kalakala" 2005

The Kalakala was the "World's First Stream Line Ferry". She is the greatest floating icon of the Art Deco era.

Shortly after starting her career, the Kalakala embarked o n "Moonlight Cruises" on Puget Sound. She had her own band, "The Flying Bird Orchestra" which made live broadcasts from the ferry (the first of their kind).

"Passengers danced to the swing music of the Flying Bird Orchestra from 8:30-12:30 p.m. for only $1.00. People met t heir future spouses on these festive cruises, and life-long memories were made dancing to the sounds of Benny Goodman and Glen Miller as the Kalakala cruised aimlessly around Puget Sound under star-filled skies. For those few hours, life aboard the Kalakala relegated the Depression to the background, and gave people a break from the stress of those hard times. After the outbreak of World War II, the ferry's role became critical, carrying workers to the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard."

After nearly 39 years of service, the Kalakala made her final trip from Bremerton to Seattle on August 6th of 1967. She was towed from Eagle Harbor to begin the second phase of her career: a floating crab processing plant in Alaska...She was broken further up in Alaska, deemed inept and stripped of her spiral staircases, streamlined interior booths & diner counters. It was not until the late 1990's that she made her final voyage home....to rest and slowly rot, moored in Puget Sound.

Many, many mornings, afternoons and evenings I spied her there, through the windows of moving vehicles over the bridge, at the end of Lake Union, through the grasses and traffic of the progressing world. I wondered at her, what she was, fantasizing a slow and stealthy boarding to admire her hulls and halls, her rust-frozen decks groaning with my footsteps, the grit eroding her further beneath my feet. Alas, like so many places, I never quite made it there...until I did?

stitches, notes & obscurity

The phenomenally batted works of stellarquilts have left me lustful and electrified. I've never seen anything like them and I'm strangely envious and covetous all at once - damn my lack of vision and talent once again...Seriously, I'm so in love with this piece! Quilting, in particular, has always semi-drawn me. I'm more familiar with the fine Indian art of Kantha and the gorgeously pieced together vestiges of vibrant saris. Being a novice in the sea of true textile arts, I think the only other contemporary pieces that have struck me are Leah Evans' legendary 'Map Quilts' and Heptic Lab's joined conceptions, which are incredible on every scale as well. . .Aside from a broad sense of textile worship on a more habitual scale, that's my exposure. I have a soft spot for tattered remnants; haphazard, forgotten ends of random worn cloth sutured together, creating something that tells a story and holds memories and scents...something texturally telling of conception and occupation. The warmth of inheritance. I'm not from quilting stock, and the conventional, 'Americana' styles do nothing but utterly bore me to tears...But this - coupling my avid fascinations with astronomy and my decorative appetite for the generally unfamiliar...is something like bliss. A torch to be passed down...an investment piece to be cherished long into it's threadbare hours.

Enough, Etsy sycophant.


"As perfume doth remain in the folds where it hath lain, so the thought of you, remaining deeply folded in my brain, will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain." - Arthur Symons
In the Library. Walking in the Air. Memory of Kindness. Mr. Hulot's Holiday. ..

All uncommon scents by Brooklyn perfumer, Christopher Brosius @ CB I Hate Perfume. Please do peruse his shop and delight in all things chemically stimulating. I'm torn between 'AmBrosious' & 'Russian Caravan Tea'.


I do not hate perfume. Jessica is a self-professed, essence-obsessed fragrance aficionado. I stick with warm, dark flavors & spices - hinting at sweetness and redolent of something dirty-animalic in the wake. I am in love with perfume.


Here are some more potions keeping my olfactory senses writhing in ecstasy...

Le Labo Fragrances' 'vanille 44' & 'neroli 36'


Diptyque's 'Philosykos'
and my personal holy grail of sensuality (aside form my husband), Maurice Roucel's aromatic manifesto, 'Musc Ravageur'...the essence of Şeytan Tüyü.


antiquity:



I've got an old copy of Edward S. Curtis' 'Native Americans' laying about in our spare bedroom, and after quite some time reacquainting myself with it's many stunning and haunting images, I became enthralled with notions of transformation & subjectivity...I was also overcome with quiet sadness for a man who invested so much of his life in preserving the complete magnificence of the established cultures in America. He was initially commissioned for the project (20 volumes with 1,500 photographs) through JP Morgan who offered $75,000 & 25 sets + 500 prints of his own work...222 complete sets were eventually published.

He wrote in the introduction to his first volume in 1907: "The information that is to be gathered ... respecting the mode of life of one of the great races of mankind, must be collected at once or the opportunity will be lost."

As an average American, I was loosely schooled in the wounded legacy of this country's indigenous peoples. As teenager, I took a bit of a personal interest in our culture's history and politics. It's a dangerous pastime for me, filled with bitterness and disbelief. Depression. I admittedly have a difficult time being patriotic, but on a broader scale...it comes down to humanity as a whole. So I read, a lot. It strikes notions of terror, the elapse of entire hordes of people and beliefs...wisdom buried beneath progress and avarice. So I stop reading. In my mind, stubborn and spoiled as it is...my home is nothing more than what I've let it be and I don't want see what it is. What it was. Until I do.


Curtis made over 10,000 wax cylinder recordings of Indian language and music. He took over 40,000 photographic images from over 80 tribes. He recorded tribal lore and history, and he described traditional foods, housing, garments, recreation, ceremonies, and funeral customs. He wrote biographical sketches of tribal leaders, and his material, in most cases, is the only recorded history. He paid tribes to undertake ceremonies out of season and reestablish ceremonies no longer practiced. He brought with him props, wigs, shirts, and other accouterments to “reenact” scenes, and was careful to remove “modern” items already adopted by tribes from the frame before shooting. His interest was in the “traditional” Indian, regardless of whether those traditions had already evolved away from the preconceptions of white america. He became consumed with his work. His marriage fell apart and he remained largely estranged from his children. He died penniless...watching the various cultures he had so devotedly observe and catalog vanish.