LISTEN to "Anhydrous" by H.O.P.E

Click and listen WHO THE HELL IS SONIA RYKIEL by Malcolm McKlaren

While performing Rusalka for LDN/BRU
Congres Station
picture Dan J. Spinney

Co-directed by: Claire Kurylowski & Jason Bradbury (Hello Mozart!)for Harald Lunde Helgesen

www.clairekurylowski.co.uk 

www.jason-bradbury.co.uk

Martin Margiela, F/W 97-98, Photo: Marina Faust

The barman and the clouds

But more of that later.

In the meanwhile, picture him, electrified by tardiness, alighting on his motorbike, cheaply rented, inexpensive anyhow, hurriedly swimming across these final laps of dusty asphalt, leading a path to be followed later on by visitors arriving from a constellation of holiday rooms and rented villas around the island, like blood pellets coursing the arteries leading to the pumping heart of the aforementioned party, the one heaving next to the smoking garbage dump. 

Now, just a few hours earlier before the party starts, still swerving the curve of this late summer afternoon, he, the barman, momentarily averts his gaze from following the road slithering around the hills, and resignedly frowns at the gathering clouds, their celestial underbelly poised tentatively above everything, a cotton ball expanse of pale, voluminous, fractal bulbs, mirroring the shapes of the arid, grey bumps below, slow motion steam rubbing against smoking dirt, the billowing accumulations a flying ocean of mist, momentarily lingering in the warm air, air not cool enough for summer showers, air not dry enough for sunshine, then suddenly, spectacularly, but only occasionally, he, the barman, is dazzled, as promises of precipitation are flashily announced by luminous displays, the hazy masses lit by constellations exploding within their opaque folds, immense energy outbursts only appearing as milliseconds of diffused pale light, their pastel incandescence tinting delicately the landscape while desaturating any contrast, these spectacularly pasty galaxies eventually concentrated to decisive lightning, rupturing the void between sky and earth, connecting the two by slashing a web of dazzling, linear cracks across the landscape, angry brightness just seconds ago barely contained in the depths of wet air descending ever lower from high up in the sky, heaven sprouting bright tendrils of light towards the earth, the sky attempting to grow roots in the soil, an afternoon electric storm, thunder muffed by rain already impatiently purring in the puffy, grey cumuli, a pale apocalypse, as weak as the world it was about to uncover.

As the first drops splashed on the work shirt he had nonchalantly worn, black and freshly washed like always, he didn’t mind. He knew, just like his everyday routine demanded, that he would soon be ironing the rain off the creases, the steam rising in timid puffs from the darkness of the fabric to his silent face, resembling a microscopic, private version of the overcast heavens flickering above, the lost drops becoming clouds all over again.

Note: All photographs courtesy of Hedi Slimane

I like her 'cause she really rocks!!

Dear iDEALS, I am anxiously waiting for the Deux Hommes presentation next week. Today I was invited for a preview of the collection and in between fittings I asked this model who reminded me of (unforgettable) Kirsten Owen , to pose for me..