XnotDead http://www.xnotdead.com XnotDead http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=721 WALTER JENKEL All you need to do today to be fully happy is to subscribe to :   http://walterjenkel.tumblr.com]]> Mon,27 Jul 2015 22:39:01 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=720 HARRY BRANT BY TERRY RICHARDSON Stephanie Seymour's heir is showing some skin , Harry Brant shot by Terry Richardson 2015]]> Sat,25 Jul 2015 19:37:42 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=716 AARON TAYLOR-JOHNSON After our 9:45, I need the chopper to the desert to meet my followers and deliver them from uncertaintyMoments before the rarefied Los Angeles rain begins to fall from its smog-riddled sky, Aaron Taylor-Johnson politely takes a seat amongst Chateau Marmont’s gilt-edged patrons. The tarp overhead umbrellas him, but my seat is positioned outside the protection zone of the tarp shield. Just as we’ve settled in, droplets begin to graze my face, and before I’ve the chance to bat a lash, Johnson has relocated my belongings under the canopy. It’s this little graciousness that belies his courteous nature instantly. Then there’s his consummate eye contact. It’s a keen but unassuming gaze, his blockbuster-blue eyes peering at you with curiosity. He portrays a casual disposition, a willingness to ease into things. I thank him for narrowly saving my hairspray-addled hair from the mangled mess it was to become beneath the deluge. Safe and dry, we resettle. He’s bearded on this day and still bulked up from his latest superhero role, but far from looking like a hairy bag of biceps. He rolls out his childhood in a small English town in Buckinghamshire County, his adolescent stint in Amsterdam, twenties in California—winsome tales of how he’s traveled abroad for acting since he was ten years old. And in listening, I digest his stories, his history, his adventures, skimming just the surface of the 25-year old man in front of me. This is the man who, shortly after his lauded portrayal of John Lennon in 2009’s Nowhere Boy, parlayed into a pack of career-minting high-profile hits—Kickass, Savages, Godzilla, Anna Karenina, and most recently, Avengers: Age of Ultron. Aaron Taylor-Johnson doesn’t take on a role recklessly. His process is a courtship, a series of carefully mulled-over considerations. He teetered for a year over talks with Avengers director Joss Whedon, before deciding to take on the iconic role of Quicksilver. It’s this calibrated dance that’s landed him roles he’s well suited for, proving his continuity between characters that are larger than life and completely believable. “Before there was a script,” he says, “Joss and I had a year of communication with Marvel about how to portray Quicksilver. At first, I wondered why they would want another superhero when there’s already five major iconic superheroes played by five huge movie stars. But Joss had an important reason for Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch. They’d have this real strong impact that was threaded throughout the film,” Taylor-Johnson says. “I wanted to help create the character. Sure, he runs really fast, that’s his superpower—but what’s his story? I wanted to know who’s behind that power, to know the real man. I needed to figure out how I could make him relatable—three-dimensional. Also I wanted him to come from an Eastern European descent and I wanted a specific look for him. We talked a lot about that and that’s what ultimately sold me. So I jumped on that bullet train.” He looks up from the rim of his cappuccino, as if he’d given his oncoming words deep consideration, though they were delivered with the merest of pauses. “It’s not just about character, it’s about the filmmaker as well. It’s about working with great directors. I’m so selective. The roles that I’ve turned down are just due to the fact that the character itself didn’t really do it for me, didn’t challenge me enough. I have to connect to that character and know that I’ll be able to properly execute its story alongside the director. When I pick characters, there’s a diversity, something I obviously associate with, and I embed myself in that.” After having embedded himself in the billion-dollar Avengers boilerplate, he’s proving to be that kind of prescient young celebrity who can adequately handle the gale-force burst of widespread mainstream attention. Fluidly navigating the limelight minefield is a skill not oft endowed, but Taylor-Johnson has already had his lion’s share of tabloid scrutiny and their verbal stinky-doings. Years ago, tabloids had a field day over his marriage to director Sam Taylor-Johnson, due to their twenty-three year age gap. But it’s a romance that refreshingly defies public convention, without artifice. “There’s not much people don’t already know,” he says, of the unruly publicity of his private life. “It’s tricky to be open and candid while maintaining privacy, but the veil’s already been lifted and I think I have a handle on it now.” Before his name ever gleaned a headline, he contemplated his career when it was still burgeoning, and felt he needed to live life and get his street cred in order. He did not want flash-in-the-pan success or middle-of-the-road purgatory. Namely, he wanted an informed existence before he continued to craft fictional ones onscreen. “To be a better actor, I needed to draw upon true, real experiences. I needed to be able to fill my cup, I needed more knowledge and experience, so I just started to do it all. I worked hard, played hard, and had money to burn. I got myself into some serious, crappy situations. My adolescence was all about wild exploring and experimentation, about doing and trying everything. Searching for what fit right,” Taylor-Johnson admits, the soft timbre of his accented voice unwavering. “For anyone going through adolescence, it’s a struggle. With all the sort of stuff that was coming my way, I had to just figure it out and understand it all. I got in a lot of trouble, but it was from a place of discovery. You either make it through in one piece without too much collateral damage, and come out the other side a grown up, or you can go completely south.” Barely in his twenties, Taylor-Johnson has achieved more than most do in a lifetime—happy marriage, four children (two biological and two from marriage), and governable fame. Now his days are turbocharged by kid’s gymnastics class, not devil-may-care ragers. Know this much about Aaron Taylor-Johnson: Man loves acting. He speaks of it with the same gleam rich men have when they discuss spiffy wine. “[Growing up] I thought I was stupid, wasn’t clever enough,” explains Taylor-Johnson. “I had really low self esteem, but when I started making films, and was around all these people in the film world, I felt empowered and I felt special. Not because I was an actor, not because of the fame from it. I felt like I finally had a voice. I was able to be openly and freely myself. I was allowed to cry and be emotional. I was allowed to yell and be as bold as I wanted.” He takes a moment, then blue-eyes me a bit from under his brow, so that I get the significance of what he’s saying: “In acting, I was encouraged to have my own opinion and my own voice, for the first time. It was naturally cathartic. Then I’d go back to school, and all of that freedom would be beaten out of me. So I took my exams at fifteen, finished school and never looked back.” On what happened next, he says, “After school, I threw myself more into acting, did job after job. Constantly running away. Ultimately, I was just lost. Then my life completely changed with Nowhere Boy, when I met Sam [Taylor-Johnson]. We just clicked from day one. We’re very close and instantly had a connection. I was just on the cusp at that point. In a way, she helped me transition out of that nomad kind-of-lifestyle. Because I felt secure with her. Second I met Sam, I knew I wanted to stop running, I just wanted to stay in the moment with her. And that’s what it’s been ever since then.” Interesting Taylor-Johnson should mention no longer running from his own life, when paradoxically, running is what he’s known for as of late—be it at the hypersonic pace of Quicksilver, or with the measured step of an unostentatious yet undeniable movie star, padding down a burgundy carpet, acting like it’s just an ordinary rain-slick pavement. Photographer: Michael Muller at MullerPhoto.comStylist: Jimi Urquiaga for OpusBeauty.comProp Stylist: David RossModels: Felix for FreedomModels.com, L.A. and Raquel Radiske and Betsy Volk for NextModels.com, L.A.Groomer: Lucy Halperin for Starworksartists.comHair for models: Christine Nelli for Eamgmt.com using Davines Hair CareMakeup for models: Homa Safar for Eamgmt.com using ChanelHelicopter Pilot: Jacob Barber at RoyalHelicopter.comPhotography Assistants: Dillon Couchois, Ricky Ridecos, and Chad BrooksMotorhome: Quixote Grooming Notes: Flash Rinse One Minute Facial by REN Clean Skincare, Moisturizing Renewal Cream by Révive, Tinted Moisturizer Broad Spectrum SPF 15 by Bobbi Brown, and Hydra Beauty Nourishing Lip Care by Chanel. Style+Care Nourishing Curls Whipped Cream Mousse by Dove. Written by Heather Seidler Photographed by Michael Muller  ]]> Thu,25 Jun 2015 14:27:06 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=700 MARK MORRISROE “Sometimes I think I’d rather be a movie star than an artist.”—Mark Morrisroe Following are some facts about Mark Morrisroe. He was born in 1959 in Malden, Massachusetts, son of Patricia, father unknown. He created the punk zine Dirt with his school friend Lynelle White. In 1976 he was shot. He walked with a noticeable limp. He attended the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. In 1978 Morrisroe became romantically involved with Jack Pierson (Jonathan at the time) and was part of a cohort of artists, filmmakers, and performers that included Pat Hearn and Stephen Tashjian (aka Taboo!). In 1984 he moved to New York City (or more accurately, Jersey City). He tested positive for HIV in 1986. He spent his last summer with his partner, Ramsey McPhillips, on an Oregon farm, and died, much too early, at age thirty in 1989. Following are some stories about the life and times of Morrisroe. He was the illegitimate son of the infamous Boston Strangler, Albert DeSalvo. His mother was a drug-addicted prostitute. He ran away from home at thirteen and was taken in by hustlers. While turning a trick in drag, he was shot by a john who realized Morrisroe wasn’t a woman. He was shot by a trick who was tracing drawings on his back with a gun. He was the subject of a snuff film and left for dead. And more. In his book Am I Dead Yet?, McPhillips wrote, “Mark Morrisroe was a liar. His friends also lied. Interviews, hospital records, police records, school files and periodical research are merely an addendum to oral histories that are partially fabricated, partially the truth … believe what you want, one truth does exist—Mark Morrisroe was a real person and if this happened at all it could only have happened to him.” Perhaps what we know most definitively about Morrisroe is that he understood identity is slippery and photography is complicit in its construction. Morrisroe enacted fictional selves, past and present, in both his work and life. He performed for the stage, for the camera, and socially, including as one half of the drag duo Clam Twins with Tashjian, as his punk persona Mark Dirt, and as the Tina Turner impersonator who graced the 1981 invite for his first exhibition at the 11th Hour gallery. Although he experimented with a variety of genres and techniques, self-portraiture was the bedrock of Morrisroe’s art making. Self-portrait is really a misnomer, because his work is a study in dispelling the notion of photographic truth. He was extremely prolific, especially with the Polaroid camera, producing more than two thousand Polaroid portraits during a ten-year period. In these pictures, we see a range of portrayals of Morrisroe that are at turns intimate, flamboyant, erotic, exhibitionist, narcissistic, and voyeuristic. The performance of the self is at the heart of all his pictures, even the Polaroids that seem to offer a glimpse of the “real” Morrisroe. Is the pensive nude Mark in bed more honest than bewigged Mark in drag? Is a self-capture of the artist masturbating more intimate than an X-ray of his illness-plagued body? The lens was ever-present, always ready to capture whatever self Morrisroe performed. This doesn’t diminish the works; after all, the best method actors call on real events and emotions to create resonant performances. Morrisroe’s exploration of the spectrum of the self is further enhanced by the experimental photographic techniques he preferred. His distinctive sandwiching of color and black-and-white negatives, which he also manipulated by hand, produced shadowy, scratched, and dreamy pictures, offering the opportunity to create radically different results from the same negative material. For Morrisroe, the photographic negative was also a site for performativity. For those of us who know Morrisroe only through his self-portrayals, there is no “real” Mark. There are only impressions of him, hundreds of likenesses of an artist performing for the lens, and for life. Although Morrisroe’s work is a far cry from today’s puckered and hashtagged selfies, he was way ahead of the curve in appreciating and exploiting photography’s power in facilitating the performance of the self. Eva Respini is curator in the Department of Photography at the Museum of Modern Art, New York. She is currently at work on a major midcareer survey of Walid Raad for fall 2015. Source : APERTURE #218]]> Wed,25 Feb 2015 15:47:01 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=699 APERTURE MAG SPECIAL QUEER ISSUE .... Queer Photography? Aperture asked Vince Aletti, Richard Meyer, and Catherine Opie to reflect on the term queer and its relationship with photography. Vince AlettiThe first queer photograph I ever saw excited and confused me. It was at a newsstand in the Jersey Shore town where my family spent the week of my father’s summer vacation, sometime in the late ’50s. Tucked between bodybuilder magazines like Strength & Health were some pocket-sized pamphlets with nearly naked men on their covers and titles like Tomorrow’s Man, Body Beautiful, and Fizeek. In one of them, I came across a picture of two dark-eyed young guys—they looked like regulars on Bandstand—in nothing but stripped-down jock straps, one slung across the other’s shoulder like a trophy. It was titled Victor and Vanquished, and I stared at it, mesmerized, until my mother called me away. I had no words for what that picture meant, certainly no classical references to fall back on. I’d seen kids horsing around in the locker room at school, but I’d never imagined anything as intimate as this. Maybe because I instinctively understood the way aggression masked tenderness, there was something thrilling about two naked men holding onto one another like that—something queer. Queer was the word kids at school used to describe sissies or guys they didn’t like. It didn’t have anything to do with sex, homo or otherwise, until I was in high school, and by that time I knew they meant people like me: perverts (another period term, not yet reclaimed). By then I’d bought and hidden a cache of those little magazines and I knew that their pictures were about sex, although I had only the vaguest idea what that meant. I’d been going to the library and looking up homosexuality in the indexes of psychology books, which usually led to dry, alarming discussions of inverts, pathologies, regression, and abnormal urges. Physique magazines countered that tone of barely disguised clinical contempt with an upbeat, celebratory take on mid-century masculinity that was deeply queer but butch enough to pass as straight. With few exceptions, however, they weren’t holding up a mirror to their readers; they were providing us with all but unattainable objects of desire: handsome, heroic, almost supernaturally healthy young athletes (and mechanics, dancers, hustlers, pool boys, etc.). Physique pictures hinted—obliquely, teasingly—at homo sex but excluded homosexuals. We were outside looking in. Around this same time, I came across another, even more potent image of naked men together in the pages of one of my father’s old U.S. Camera annuals. George Rodger’s famous 1949 photograph of a triumphant Nuba wrestler being carried upright on another man’s shoulders—the same totemlike image that Leni Riefenstahl said inspired her book The Last of the Nuba—was breathtaking. A real-world Victor and Vanquished, the picture’s body-to-body nudity was all the more stunning because it was so casual, so matter-of-fact. When I realized that the two men were surrounded by a milling crowd of other muscular, naked men, I felt like I’d tumbled through the looking glass. For a profoundly inexperienced fifteen-year-old, the erotic possibilities suggested by Rodger’s photograph were overwhelming. I went back to that image again and again, as if hypnotized, imagining myself in that naked paradise. Clearly, queer is in the eye of the beholder, and mine was wide open and avid. Having grown up with moving images of Elvis, Fabian, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, James Dean, Marlon Brando, Rock Hudson, Paul Newman, and Clint Walker, it would be reductive to say that my erotic imagination was shaped by two photographs. But the still image has always exerted a different sort of power for me, because a picture—in a book, in a magazine, in my hand—could be mine. To have and to hold. As they accumulated, those images began to define my life. The first thing I did in a new dorm room or apartment was tack pictures to the wall, claiming the space with Avedon’s portrait of the teenage Lew Alcindor from Harper’s Bazaar, a Warhol Flowers print, a cover of Body Beautiful, and the sleeve of a Frankie Avalon record. I wasn’t consciously queering the space, but as my rooms filled up with images of men, I realized I was queering the pictures. It didn’t matter who made them or with what intentions. Now that they were mine, they became expressions of my desire, my obsession, my imagination. They might not be gay, but they’d become queer. Context rules. So what’s the difference? Until it, too, is reclaimed, gay remains the weaker word: fey, wishy-washy, limp-wristed. Screaming instead of shouting. Queer is more transgressive, more audacious, tougher, unsafe, unapologetic. And, it seems to me, more open, more comprehensive. Queer is hungry, insatiable. It doesn’t have a look, a size, a sex. Queer resists boundaries and refuses to be narrowly defined. Which is why, more often than not these days, queer absorbs and appreciates gay, embracing both Cecil Beaton and Peter Hujar, Duane Michals and Wolfgang Tillmans, Wilhelm von Gloeden and Ryan McGinley, Berenice Abbott and Zanele Muholi. And because queer doesn’t care who you’re sleeping with, it takes in Larry Clark, Nan Goldin, and Katy Grannan too. Like the photographs I couldn’t get out of my head, queer is unsettling and exciting and unforgettable. It bites hard and won’t let go. Vince Aletti reviews photography exhibitions for the New Yorker and photography books for Photograph. He will be a juror for the 2015 Pride Photo Award in Amsterdam. Richard MeyerAlthough it may seem hopelessly “’90s” to some, the word queer continues to provide a crucial means of opposition. In the recent book Art and Queer Culture, written by Catherine Lord and myself, we wrote, “We have chosen the term “queer” in the knowledge that no single word can accommodate the sheer expanse of cultural practices that oppose normative heterosexuality. In its shifting connotation from everyday parlance to phobic epithet to defiant self-identification, “queer” offers more generous rewards than any simple inventory of sexual practices or erotic object choices. It makes more sumptuous the space between best fantasy and worst fear.” The last line of this passage was a reference to an early 1970s gay liberation slogan proclaiming “I am your worst fear. I am your best fantasy.” By citing this slogan within a book on queer art published in 2013, Lord and I suggest that recursive power and expansive history of queer culture. For many years the work of queer photographers has been necessarily—if sometimes unwittingly—indebted to the sexual and subcultural imagery long preceding it. In some of the most exciting examples of such work, the photographer’s debt to queer history is openly, at times even extravagantly, acknowledged. For example, in 1991, Canadian photographer Nina Levitt partially erased a reprint of an 1891 picture by Staten Island–based amateur photographer Alice Austen of two female couples embracing, one of which includes Austen herself. The title of Austen’s original picture, That Darned Club, parrots the voice of an exasperated man excluded from the women’s intimacy while alluding, however lightheartedly, to the damnation of late nineteenth-century women who rejected the company and authority of men. Retrieving the photograph a century later, Levitt asks us to consider the visual record of lesbian life: what has been submerged that might yet be excavated or allowed to emerge. Like Levitt’s image, titled Submerged (for Alice Austen), the history of lesbian culture hovers between visibility and erasure, resolution and apparition. Artist Emily Roysdon has initiated an equally vivid dialogue with the photographic work of a queer predecessor, in this case the late David Wojnarowicz. Across a series of twelve photographs, Roysdon both reimagines and restages Wojnarowicz’s Rimbaud in New York series (1978–79) in which a man wearing a face mask of fin-de-siècle poet Arthur Rimbaud surfaces at different locations in 1970s New York City—riding the subway, shooting up at the piers, outside an X-rated movie theater in Times Square. Although many assume the project to be self-portraiture, in fact Wojnarowicz asked a friend to wear the Rimbaud mask and then followed him to different sites throughout the city. Wearing a paper mask bearing the likeness of Wojnarowicz, Roysdon produces a touchingly inexact restaging of Rimbaud in New York. Where, for example, the original series featured “Rimbaud” masturbating on a hotel bed, we now see Roysdon pleasuring herself with a dildo. Untitled (David Wojnarowicz), 2001–2007, bespeaks both an embodied lesbian difference and a desire to create queer art across the divides of both gender and generation. Central to the logic of Roysdon’s “surrogacy” of the earlier series is the double displacement Wojnarowicz performed in the late 1970s—asking a friend, masked as a queer poet from the previous century, to stand in for the photographer’s own journey through the urban landscape. Throughout the history of photography, queers have sought out real or fictive archives on which to base—and from which to stage—their own sexual imaginings. Living in Sicily at the end of the nineteenth century, German aristocrat Baron Wilhelm von Gloeden, for example, choreographed scenes of classical homoeroticism by photographing toga-clad (and unclad) adolescent boys and young men among fluted columns and other faux-antique props. Von Gloeden’s photographs—collected by the writer Oscar Wilde, the sexologist Alfred Kinsey, and later, the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe—reveal as much about the homoerotic imagination of the late nineteenth century as about the sexual culture or customs of Greco-Roman antiquity. Von Gloeden’s photographs are now hawked on the Internet as representing a lost “golden age of pornography.” Mapplethorpe’s interest in Von Gloeden was part of the former’s broader embrace of the history of pornography. Before Mapplethorpe took up photography exclusively, he was over-painting pages from gay (and occasionally straight) porn magazines. In some cases, Mapplethorpe would impose a bull’s-eye over the figure’s genitals or a black rectangular bar over the eyes, thereby referencing the criminalization and censorship of homoerotic desire as well as its persistence in the face of such threats. In other cases, such as the collage shown here, the over-painting functions to focus the viewer more insistently on points of sexual exchange and homo-affection. Although Mapplethorpe’s early collages remain little known, they reflect the queer archival imagination that helped launch his photographic career. Queer photographers working today are likewise mining the long history of gay, lesbian, trans, and otherwise non-normative sexualities. That history reaches back to the practice of photography from its earliest moments in the nineteenth century and further still, to premodern histories of art and sexuality. As contemporary photographers continue to experiment with new forms of affiliation and technologies of representation, they simultaneously return to and reimagine the visual archives of the queer past. Richard Meyer is the Robert and Ruth Halperin Professor in Art History at Stanford University. In addition to Art and Queer Culture (2013), his books include hat Was Contemporary Art? (2013) and Outlaw Representation: Censorship and Homosexuality in Twentieth-Century American Art (2002). Catherine OpieWithin my work I’ve always addressed the politics behind visibility and community, but I don’t think that I am a singular identity. Queer photographers these days are not necessarily identifying in singular terms; they are more interested in being part of a political discourse about how radically life has changed over the past three decades for queers. Some artists are still very interested in creating history in terms of identity politics, but then you also have artists whose work may participate in a queer semiotic discourse but isn’t pointedly political. You have an interesting range of things happening in photography, from A.L. Steiner to Matt Lipps. I’m interested in how an artist defines their work and also in how people are not willing to be defined as queer or gendered. I appreciate this refusal to self-define because my work is totally defined as queer. It’s like I can’t get away from it. For the first time, I’m making more metaphorical photographs, even if my work always relies on the notion of the camera as an apparatus to document. The most important conversation for me around my ’90s series Domestic is what it did for a younger generation of gays and lesbians. I’ve had so many people over the years come up to me and say, “You helped me come out,” or “You helped me feel like I was okay to be who I am.” There were many reasons for making this body of work, but foremost was to create a history of visibility. People are still asking why queer history has been invisible. When I made Domestic, it was meant to be in conversation with Peter Galassi’s 1991 Museum of Modern Art show Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort. The exhibition, which showed a somewhat dystopic vision of family, and celebrated the ambiguity of family, was groundbreaking and in conversation with the museum’s 1955 Steichen exhibition, The Family of Man. When I saw the show, I felt that a queer voice and the politics of family were missing from MoMA’s mix of 150 images, especially since this was a time of activism throughout New York City with the actions of ACT UP in response to the AIDS crisis. So I bought an RV and drove around the country with an 8-by-10 camera and made photographs of lesbians in their houses. This was part of a discourse that Galassi had not represented within that show. When I was included in the 1995 Whitney Biennial, I was making very radical work though I never thought it looked radical. The portraits were primarily of friends in the leather community and included a self-portrait, Pervert. The work was bold, in color, and used complicated studio lighting. The culture wars were still happening at this point, but unlike Mapplethorpe, I hadn’t been censored. Recently, though, I had my first experience with censorship. This was very upsetting because my own community censored me. I had an exhibition in 2011 at the ICA Boston, called Empty and Full, which included an image taken at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival of a group of women (I don’t know who they are). The women in the photograph sued me to have the piece removed from the museum. The picture was part of a series about gathering, community, the notion of democracy within America, and so on. Here I had been wondering why conservative America hadn’t censored me, and I got censored by my own community. It’s a curious time to have a conversation around queer photography when so much has changed. My partner, Julie, and I are getting married in a couple of weeks. I never thought that would happen. Many people within my community are against gay marriage as a political platform for gay liberation. I understand that, but marriage is still a contract that has advantages set by the federal government. Before I was using tropes of beauty to make my community visible, but my most recent studio images have a more cognitive relationship with ideas of beauty and desire. I vacillate between a documentary position and just loving to look. In London, in 2011, I saw a Da Vinci show at the National Gallery and a Gerhard Richter show at the Tate. I began thinking about how Richter’s photographic portraits were interspersed among his abstract paintings and about new abstraction in photography. I thought about how abstraction can be lens-based versus material-based. All of these thoughts rounded into my new body of work. I am asking: “Well, how do photographs actually operate, and how do you get people to stand before an image for more than a second at this oversaturated moment within this medium?” Catherine Opie is one of America’s premier documentarians. She has taught at Yale University and is currently a professor of photography at the University of California, Los Angeles. A solo exhibition of her work will open at the Wexner Center for the Arts, Columbus, Ohio, this May.   Purchase : APERTURE 218]]> Wed,25 Feb 2015 15:33:05 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=696 COLE MOHR BY TERRY RICHARDSON   Cole and Jim shot Terry Richardson  for The Printed Dog… out now!! source : Terry's Diary ]]> Fri,20 Feb 2015 11:48:01 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=695 SOMEONE GOT INSPIRED ... This is always a very warm feeling to discover that some other use your work as a reference ... And brings it furthermore. This is what just happened to me when I found on tumblr this pastel collage that looks a like inspired from a picture I took ... Unfortunately it was impossible to track back the artist who created this collage. This too bad , because obviously we have something in common... And I would like to share with him / her]]> Fri,20 Feb 2015 11:35:32 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=694 DIDIER PEPIN collage artist Maxwell N. Burnstein (BYMAXWELL), in a Homotography exclusive.]]> Sun,15 Feb 2015 06:47:05 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=693 SKIN ACTIVITY / ORGASM / feat. Marko Brozic / by Damien Blottière]]> Mon,02 Feb 2015 07:35:45 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=692 #JESUISCHARLIE Lofty principles won’t save France 18 January 2015, New Delhi, Adrian Morel Sharing in Facebook Sharing in Twitter Sharing in Google+ Add as favourite Mailing PrintFrance is right to stand firmly by its democratic principles, but it needs to apply them consistently to all citizens, including Muslims, writes Adrian Morel.The ghastly terror attack on Charlie Hebdo gave rise, both in France and globally, to a wave of indignation and mass mobilisation in defence of freedom of expression. It also led to a reflection, although mostly outside of France this time, on the limits of that freedom and the respect owed to other people’s beliefs and cultures, especially those of minorities. In the United States for example, a number of articles denounced the violence and expressed sympathy for the family of the victims, but questioned the ‘blindness’ of the French toward Charlie Hebdo’s perceived Islamophobia and racism – a judgment that in my opinion was a bit quick and often based on a misinformed reading of the cartoons. In the Muslim world, the attack was mostly followed by an unequivocal rejection of extremism, but also by unease at the offensive nature of some of the drawings. Much criticism was directed at French double standards in the enforcement of freedom of speech. France is right to stand firmly by its democratic principles. Freedom of speech does include, of course, the right to ridicule other people’s beliefs, whatever they are. This doesn’t mean such ridicule is right, and it doesn’t make it any less distasteful, but freedom of expression cannot be tailored to every individual’s own subjective definition of what is acceptable and what is not. But then, France should apply those same principles consistently to all French citizens. Last week’s attack should be seen as an opportunity to engage in a thorough reflection about how we French define and apply democratic freedoms, in particular when it comes to our Muslim population. If we uphold the right to draw and ridicule the prophet, as I think we should, then shouldn’t we also uphold the right for our Muslim fellow citizens to express their own beliefs in the public place? Freedom of expression applies to everyone, or no one. Let’s take one example, the particularly thorny issue of the Islamic veil. In the name of secularism (French: laïcité), another republican principle that we French hold dear, the veil is banned from schools. Its use is restricted when accessing public services and often discouraged in the workplace. Of course, there are some sensible arguments in favour of the ban, which have to do with the role of schools as a social equaliser, or the need to protect Muslim schoolgirls from being forced to wear the veil due to social and familial pressure. However, this also means our children grow up in an environment in which exposure to other cultures, and the expression of differences of opinion and belief that is inherent to democratic education, are partly suppressed. Non-Muslim kids effectively grow up in ignorance of Islam, the religion of a vast number of their fellow citizens. They become used to the idea that their Muslim classmates must hide their beliefs if they want to be accepted into French society. On the other hand, a large number of Muslim kids, whether they wear the veil or not, see the ban as yet another form of discrimination, yet another reminder that they are second-class citizens in their own country. This in turn feeds into a broader sense of rejection and simmering resentment that leads some of our youth to look elsewhere to build their identity; some may become increasingly receptive to the rhetoric of militant Islamism. Shouldn’t this be a cause for concern? Shouldn’t we learn from the failings of our policies? Surely laïcité shouldn’t mean our minorities have to hide. Of course, there is a broad variety of opinion on the veil within the Muslim ‘community’ itself. A large proportion of Muslims do not look at the ban as a bad thing. But my point is: when did we ever ask their opinion? When did we ever grant French Muslims a real voice and representation in the public debates that most concern them? Public policy on matters related to Islam is decided by non-Muslim elites, based on assumptions, clichés and very often barely veiled (no pun intended) racial prejudice. French people have a habit of hiding behind noble ideals and high-minded principles in order to avoid addressing complex issues. We hold laïcité just as sacred as Muslims hold the prophet. Well, maybe the time has come to take a scalpel to those principles, expose their inherent contradictions, and invite our Muslim fellow citizens to take part in the process. As French politicians try to take advantage of national grief and make calls for republican unity, professing their unwavering commitment to democratic freedoms, it might be useful for them to take a step back and question their own collective responsibility in the growing antagonism that divides French society. For more than a decade now, the overwhelming majority of them, across nearly the entire political spectrum, have peddled to French people the same lie: that immigration, insecurity and the ‘Islamisation’ of French society are real problems. They are not. They are mirages. Social and economic inequalities, the failure of the education system in the suburbs where many French Muslims live, and most of all, individual and state attitudes toward our Muslim fellow citizens, are the real problems. It is time for France to come to terms with the fact that those five or six million Muslims – that we talk about as if they just disembarked from rafts last night – are just as French as we are. They are entitled to the exact same rights. Too many mainstream politicians, not just the National Front, continue to claim that French Muslims need to ‘earn’ their citizenship, and fulfill certain conditions in order to 'integrate' into French society. They do not need to integrate. They are French citizens already. France is currently headed down a very dangerous path. Its democratic heritage is threatened by the rising tide of xenophobia and the increased public acceptance of rightist values and ideas that only a few years ago were still relegated to a fringe of extremist agitators. Now that fringe has grown into a mass movement, those once-extreme ideas are openly discussed and defended by mainstream politicians, and it has become perfectly acceptable to air Islamophobic views on French TV. On the other hand, France is pressured by the growing frustration of a large section of Muslim youth, who feel like they don’t belong and have learned to loathe their own country. Empty calls for national unity, and for the Muslim ‘community’ to join hands in upholding republican values in the face of extremism, will not succeed unless we give French Muslims a reason to relate to those values. Lofty principles will not save France from the disaster it is rushing toward. The time has come for French people to engage in something they have typically little talent or appetite for: pragmatism. It is time for an inclusive debate on how to guarantee to our Muslim citizens the same rights we so stridently claim for ourselves. It will require compromise on both sides. The author is a French citizen. He has been working on conflict and fragility issues in Asia for over 10 years and By the way a good friend of Us  Soucre: MIllenium Post]]> Fri,09 Jan 2015 19:28:24 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=691 SANNE DE WILDE ]]> Sun,21 Dec 2014 11:10:41 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=689 DANIEL FEIRRERA it is always flattering when One likes your Job and ask you to Work with him , Thank you Daniel for That  ... it Is even better when the output of collaboration goes ( by far ) beyhond what was expected at first ... Not only Daniel Feirrera is a great , cleaver dude and an easy going guy ... But also he has this stunning face and that camera just likes him ....Simply super easy yet very profesionnal .... Daniel just has it all... And am sure that this guy is to be followed ...Only 20 years old with such a drive and charisma , Style versatily and willingness to do well : I would not be surprised  at all that I spent last saturday with of of the greatest model the next decade has yet to discover ....    Here are some fast pics among Hundreds i shot last saturday ... More to come ]]> Mon,10 Nov 2014 06:20:32 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=688 SEXY PASTELS FROM THE WEB ]]> Fri,07 Nov 2014 16:03:26 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=686 CHARLOTTE & VINCENT ]]> Thu,06 Nov 2014 15:33:25 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=683 SEUNG-HWAN Creating a new take on portraits, South Korea artist Seung-Hwan Oh uses a combination of biology and art to produce the work in his series “Impermanence”. Best described on his website, Oh’s artistic process “exposes his practice to Science. As a microbiologist, he cultivates fungus that he applies to his film. Through this process, the microorganisms slowly devour the film. The artist proposes a depletion of an image. The intended result is what appears through disappearance”. Each piece takes on a life of it’s own through the scientific manipulation that is applied to it, which is apparent through the fluidity of the areas that the microorganisms affected the most. The resulting compositions are both hauntingly beautiful and conceptually original. Text by Canbra Hodsdon]]> Fri,10 Oct 2014 18:36:56 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=681 MOOD OF THE DAY When you don't have much to say ... You'd better shut up ... Hope those few images ( some from us , some others not ) summarize our current mood ... Nostalgic ... Attracted by the scary , repulsed by the obvious , mesmerized by the glowing ugly ... Overall not that bad   ]]> Wed,10 Sep 2014 15:04:21 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=680 TRAPPED Source : http://pornceptual.com/trapped/?utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pulsenews]]> Mon,26 May 2014 13:14:03 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=679 ABDUL MAJEED GORAYA Hijras pose in their office in Peshawar, Pakistan. All photos by Abdul Majeed Goraya "My father used to beat me and ask, ‘Why do you have to go around pretending to be a girl?’” Now at 35, she says her cheeks burn and fists tighten if anyone refers to her as a man. Khushboo, whose name means fragrance, classifies herself as a hijra, a South Asian gender designation that encompasses transgender and transexual people, as well as transvestites and eunuchs. She has a different definition for herself and the estimated hundreds of thousands of other hijras across the region. “Our souls are female and our bodies are male,” she says, dipping a rag into a red plastic pail filled with a chalky mixture of water and face powder. Surrounded by a group of several other hijras in a room they call their “office,” Khushboo smears the dripping rag over her face and adds, “I’ve known I was a hijra since I was a child.” She used to wear her sisters’ clothes. At 16, Khushboo slipped out of the house in one of their outfits and didn’t return home for years. Along with another hijra, she settled in Peshawar, a city in northwestern Pakistan one night’s drive from the costal city of Karachi where she’d grown up. Peshawar has long been home to cultural traditions that insist on strict gender segregation, and the city has come under increasing sway of an extremist view of Islam in recent years. These intolerant, conservative beliefs are made brutally clear through the bombings and shootings that are now near-weekly occurrences. Taliban suicide bombers killed 85 worshippers at a church there last September, and militants killed thirteen people at a cinema showing pornographic movies in February. Lesser attacks are momentaryblips on local news coverage featuring bloodied streets and blaring sirens. Khushboo points to battered doors and broken windows around her. She says young men—“college boys” she calls them—wreak havoc on her and fellow hijras who are preparing for a dance performance later that night. Sometimes the men recite scripture and beat the hijras to shame them out of their profession as dancers, and other times they force them to dance or even rape them, she tells me. Despite the extremism that has only further marred the city since her arrival nearly 20 years ago, Khushboo has an affinity for Peshawar because it’s where she had a sort of rebirth as her new self. Free from the abuse of her father and brothers, as well as the sense of dishonor she felt on behalf of her mother and sisters, Khushboo embraced a new life of openness—and was adopted into a new family. “In this field we have mothers. We have gurus. We have uncles and aunts,” she says, and then points to a girl who’s rolling a spliff in the corner of the room. “She’s my daughter. I’m a daughter of someone so she has a grandmother too. And,” Khushboo adds, “She also has a father.” That last bit comes so quickly that I almost miss it. I inquire further about the girl’s “papa” and Khushboo says, “Her father is married to someone else, but he loves me.” She then goes on to explain what their relationship entails—and it’s all very practical until it gets utterly tragic: “If I’m sick, he comes by and brings me medicine,” she says proudly. “If I don’t have money he drops some cash off. If I die, it’s this man who will dress me up as a man and take my body to his house to carry out the cemetery. He might not explain the full story and just say that I was killed in the market or that there was some kind of shooting, but he’s the one who will take care of the funeral.” I can’t help but think that this grim possibility is one that Khushboo has discussed with her “husband”—and one that he too has come to terms with. ... In Peshawar’s increasingly religiously-motivated milieu, the presence of hijras—be they dancers or sex workers—is frowned upon and politicians vie for favor by pushing them out of their homes and worksites. Seeing this, Malik Iqbal says he wanted to do something. “I sympathize with them because no one gives them any space,” he tells me. He rents out the office that Khusboo and her fellow hijras use to prepare for their dances. “I didn’t used to be on their side,” Iqbal says. “Now I help them. I say they’re humans too. We should have some empathy for that reason. Not just me, everyone should empathize with them as people.” But some believe Iqbal’s connection to hijras goes beyond a shared humanity. Though he refuses to speak about it, Iqbal was arrested in 2010 for attempting to marry a hijra called Rani. Such a union would be illegal under Pakistani law, which only recognizes marriages between men and women. He has repeatedly denied the charge and claimed that police were trying to extort money from hijras at an event that wasn’t a marriage but an innocent birthday party. Either way, the shock the story garnered reveals just how far removed everyday Pakistanis are from the hijra community. A big-grossing film called Bol, or Speak—released in 2011—may have helped some, but real connections like Iqbal's remain few. And not everyone in close proximity to hirjas is sympathetic. Noor Illahi, who owns a grain shop down the street from the hijras’ office, doesn’t have a problem with the hijras themselves or even their work, but thinks they should find some other place to go. “My work has suffered because of them. The other storeowners and I, we think they should be given some place off to the side. It should be separate.” He’s worked in his store for 15 years and says that sales have dropped fifty percent since the hijras set up shop next door a few years ago. “There are a lot of fights here now. They create quite a scene sometimes.” The raucousness has driven away his customers. Those who stop in the area are more interested in the hijras than the sacks of flour he has for sale. “I’m not personally offended by them. But look,” he says, pointing to a group of several white shalwar kameez-clad men loitering outside the hijra’s building. “These poor people have earned just three or four hundred rupees all day ($3-4) and they’ll come here and waste it all on them.” The men are all rickshaw drivers. One by one, they go on the record to deny being there to solicit sex. “We’re just here to chit chat with them,” one says while peering over his shoulder to see if any of the hijras have come out into the alley. “It’s a totally innocent relationship that we have with them.” Back up in the hijras’ office, the lights have gone out as a part of the rolling power outages that have frustrated Pakistanis for years. It might be another hour before they’re ready to leave for their performance. When they do, they’ll be cloaked in massive shawls and under the cover of night. Follow Beenish Ahmed on Twitter.]]> Sat,17 May 2014 13:31:28 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=678 YOUR HEART IS (ALMOST) FULL ‘Human Error’ is an on-going series by Brooklyn-based graphic designer Victoria Siemer, in which she digitally inserts computer error messages over scanned polaroid films. The polaroids depict images of broken hearts and seclusion, while the error messages prompt the viewer for an action—like to “erase all feelings” from the heart or to “move on” from a failed relationship. Blurring the line between technology and reality, the series shows that mending a broken heart is often more complex, and that it takes more than a few simple mouse clicks to heal.   source : http://designtaxi.com/news/364977/Graphic-Designer-Inserts-Error-Messages-Into-Human-Experiences/?utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pulsenews]]> Thu,10 Apr 2014 18:31:22 GMT http://www.xnotdead.com/index.php?page=voir&id=677 MADAULA'S ART   We do not know much about Madaula .... He might be a single person ... Or a Collectif . Modern yet timeless celebration of beauty   All we we know is that their selective art display is always sticking and rare .    Tatsefull spanish artist(s) invole into photography and painting   more at : http://madaula.es/about/]]> Sun,30 Mar 2014 07:02:01 GMT