window

this is lovely. and those flush windows remind me of the studio at blackrock. that's a detail to be stored away in the vault.

the rest of iit

mies.

rem (and mies).

rem.

shoreditch etc

 look closer.

ella on her birthday!

leaving albion

 it may not look like it but this is the beginning of packing my life away.

that's one full box, one empty.

ritual

aggy, tea, window.

 watching the rain.

 solving the world's problems.

rather superficial

reasons i like my hair the way it is :
  i can wear it down (crazy, i know).
  when i do wear it up in a ponytail, i like the way it bobs about as i walk; it makes me feel like a cheerleader in the 50s.
  sometimes, especially when frustrated at work, i sigh and can blow my fringe up á la ariel (the little mermaid). if you don't understand what that means, you clearly weren't a little girl in the 90s.
  i like the undercut but it's nice that when it's grown out a bit you can't really tell. that is to say that i forget sometimes.


i'm almost incapable of anything more intellectually challenging than this, come back in a week or two.

tonal

this is cool. and highly addictive.

new hero

this is ron arad's design museum in holon, israel.

it's made me incredibly excited about architecture again.

and this made me kind of like computer drawings a little bit. (or maybe i really appreciate a nice exploded axo).

more nabokov

Now, frankly speaking, I have always been irritated by the complacent conviction that a ripple of stream consciousness, a few healthy obscenities, and a dash of communism in any old slop pail will alchemically and automatically produce ultramodern literature; and I will contend until I am shot that art as soon as it is brought into contact with politics inevitably sinks to the level of ideological trash.


from Spring in Fialta

lucien herve

oh god, it hurts.

black spot

i moved into ellie's place. so did the 'mini-sham', sambuca. this is what i've been doing with my spare time as of last friday.

nabokov

    It was necessary to shut the window: rain was striking the sill and splashing the parquet and armchairs. With a fresh, slippery sound, enormous silver spectres sped through the garden, through the foliage, along the orange sand. The drainpipe rattled and choked. You were playing Bach. The piano had raised its lacquered wing, under the wing lay a lyre, and little hammers were rippling cross the strings. The brocade rug, crumpling into coarse folds, had slid partway off the piano’s tail, dropping an opened opus onto the floor. Every now and then, through the frenzy of the fugue, your ring would clink on the keys as, incessantly, magnificently, the June shower slashed the windowpanes. And you, without interrupting your playing, and slightly tilting your head, were exclaiming, in time to the beat, “The rain, the rain … I am go-ing to drown it out….”

    But you could not.

…

   I had a feeling of enraptured equilibrium as I sensed the musical relationship between the silvery spectres of rain and your inclined shoulders, which would give a shudder when you pressed your fingers into the rippling lustre. And when I withdrew deep into myself the whole world seemed like that – homogeneous, congruent, bound by the laws of harmony. I myself, you, the carnations, at that instant all became vertical chords on musical staves. I realized that everything in the world was an interplay of identical particles comprising different kinds of consonance: the trees, the water, you… All was unified, equivalent, divine.

…

   I recall you within a chance patch of sunlight. You had sharp elbows and pale, dusty-looking eyes. When you spoke, you would carve the air with the riblike edge of your little hand and the glint of a bracelet on your thin wrist. Your hair would melt as it merged with the sunlit air that quivered around it. You smoked copiously and nervously. You exhaled through both nostrils, obliquely flicking off the ash.

…

   Your love was a bit muted, as was your voice. One might say you loved askance, and you never spoke about love. You were one of those habitually untalkative women, to whose silence one immediately grows accustomed. But now and then something in you burst forth. Then your giant Bechstein would thunder, or else, gazing mistily straight ahead, you would tell me hilarious anecdotes you had heard from your husband or from his regimental comrades. I remember your hands – elongated, pale hands with bluish veins.

taken from a short story called Sounds, by Vladimir Nabokov.

undercut (final phase)

for those of you (whoever you are) who live outside the realm of facebook. i think it's more than half my head of hair, gone.

recently

poor arvi, work's been rough lately.

our new, limited edition art series 8oz cups.

tube strike on monday meant i was either going to be super early or super late.

i was ridiculously early and waited for celeste for close to an hour.

in the piss alley between greek street and charing cross (they painted over this that very day).

reminds me of mallory.

ellie in sillouhette! at caravan where i finally treated her like it was her birthday.

the cat from norway got stuck in the doorway, but my cat likes to hide in boxes. (i'm packing).

my name

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is in your mind.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was raining very hard.

That is my name.

Or somebody wanted you to do something. You did it. Then they told you that what you did was wrong - "Sorry for the mistake," - and you had to do something else.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was a game that you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near a window.

That is my name.

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.

That is my name.

Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near you who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened.

That is my name.

Or you heard someone calling from a great distance. Their voice was almost an echo.

That is my name.

Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a  good way to end the day.

That is my name.

Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove.

That is my name.

Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems.

That is my name.

Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on iDEATH and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant.

That is my name.

And I wish Margaret would leave me alone.

Richard Brautigan, from In Watermelon Sugar.

time waster

speaking of addictions, this website is ridiculous.

sorry that i don't have any real news, something will happen soon though, or i'll have some film developed or something.

proper addiction

i really need to stop visiting the hermes site.

i can make it on my own

li'l brudder. kills me every time.

herzog

i might just be having a minor obsession with werner herzog right now. if you haven't seen grizzly man or fitzcaraldo, your life is, in fact, incomplete. i'm also dying to see i'm still here (out tomorrow!).

on the stoop

this is why i can't have nice things.

edit: just to clarify based on the comments, this is not my doing. my mug had been missing for a while and then when i left the house in the morning, this is what i found. cup murder.

when you left the fire

aggy and i spent last night with a very handsome and charming bunch of canadians by the name of wilderness of manitoba. four part harmonies? yes please! cover of CSN's helplessly hoping? fucking gorgeous.

great opener too, nathaniel rateliff.

things are about to get boring

i apologize. you might need to stay away if nostalgia offends you because i'm rediscovering some absolute gems.

when corgis attack.

memory

i've begun the somewhat daunting task of going through the past decade* or so of photographs. this is not purely for nostalgia's sake, no no, i'm hoping that in clearing up my digital memory i might regain at least a small portion of my cerebral memory. 

anyway, long hair!! i always forget just how crazy it was. i think i could get it back in a year or two, what do you say? (an aside - i miss that baby leica too).


* an exaggeration, naturally. i do have some from high school so there's a decent amount to get through.

also

did i mention the family of foxes living in our garden?

kitty!

when kitty hangs out in my room, this is the only place she wants to be.

she will fight just about anything...

...she especially likes the power connection (not the cord, just the bit that may hurt her).

i never wanted to be one of those people who fills up the internet with cats, but she's just too cute not to be shared.

automatic

i've acquired an olympus om-10 (without the manual adapter). the instructions are one of the best things about it.

dave

henry said, 'don't encourage him soph.'

(that's the punchline, i can barely remember the body of the joke, and it wouldn't be funny anyway).

note

if you've not seen anything from my time away, please start at the post titled 'just because'. if you've caught up with all the analogue shots, start at the post called 'here it comes'. it doesn't really matter but it'll make a bit more sense.

last day

after a quick pack and a quick coffee i met rhea for brunch and then it was on to the market to shop for a feast. (rhea matched the rainbow chard beautifully).

the produce we came home with quickly turned into a still life.

a snack, a cider and a nap and we started cooking.

jackie and rhea.

megan, ky and sean.

that blonde, be-hatted blur is ranya and her friend lord gavin.

megan, so fantastic.

and this, this is miller's. i spent a good amount of time here (almost every night i think).

we (ky, megan, rhea and i) stayed til the bitter end. then it was home to organize the remainder of my stuff, into a cab and onto jfk (where i promptly sobered up). and that's it.