Saturday, November 14, 2009

Tao Okamoto



ph: Daniel Jackson

From my vaults: Momo Aida

Milana Keller



ph: Ph: Warren Du Preez & Nick Thornton Jones

New York


Rooftop parking for 450 patrons' cars is afforded by new terminal, which is located in what was once New York's infamous Hell's Kitchen district.

Date taken: December 30, 1950
Photographer: Al Fenn

Liya Kebede

Lydia Davis: The Mice


MICE LIVE IN OUR WALLS but do not trouble our kitchen. We are pleased but cannot understand why they do not come into our kitchen where we have traps set, as they come into the kitchens of our neighbors. Although we are pleased, we are also upset, because the mice behave as though there were something wrong with our kitchen. What makes this even more puzzling is that our house is much less tidy than the houses of our neighbors. There is more food lying about in our kitchen, more crumbs on the counters and filthy scraps of onion kicked against the base of the cabinets. In fact, there is so much loose food in the kitchen I can only think the mice themselves are defeated by it. In a tidy kitchen, it is a challenge for them to find enough food night after night to survive until spring. They patiently hunt and nibble hour after hour until they are satisfied. In our kitchen, however, they are faced with something so out of proportion to their experience that they cannot deal with it. They might venture out a few steps, but soon the overwhelming sights and smells drive them back into their holes, uncomfortable and embarrassed at not being able to scavenge as they should.

Daniela Kocianova


ph: Babette Pauthier

Gamera tai daiakuju Giron (1969)



Aliens kidnap two children and take them to another planet in an attempt to lure Gamera into fighting the fierce monster, Guiron.

Silly Japanese monster flic, obviously made for a children audience, who probably will enjoy this nonsense.

Bette Franke


ph: Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin

New stuff

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator: David Foldvari


More at:

http://www.davidfoldvari.co.uk

Friday, November 13, 2009

Bregje Heinen


ph: Bruna Kazinoti

From my vaults: Ai Heng

Yulia Lobova

New York


Shadow of the Empire State Building, 1940

Katlin Aas

Daniel Charms, 31 Plays, #31.7


The Old Woman - VII

I walked out onto the street. I made it to the streetcar successfully, changing hands ever so often.

I got into the streetcar at the first door of the last car, and waved to the ticket lady to get her to come over and take money for my ticket and luggage. I didn't want to hand over my only money - the thirty rubles bill - via the whole car and couldn't leave the suitcase unattended and go up to her myself. She eventually came over to me and said she had no change. I had no other alternative but to get off at the next stop.

I stood angrily, waiting for the next streetcar. My stomach hurt and my legs were shaking.

Suddenly I saw the same pretty young lady I met earlier today: she crossed the street looking in the other direction.

I grabbed hold of the suitcase and rushed after her. I didn't know her name so I couldn't call to her. The suitcase was an awful impediment; I held it in front of me with my both hands, pushing it with my knees and stomach. The pretty young lady walked quite fast and I didn't think I would catch up with her. I was covered with sweat and completely exhausted, when the pretty young lady turned into a side street. When I reached the corner, she was nowhere in sight.

"The hell with you, old woman!" I hissed, dropping the suitcase onto the pavement.

The sleeves of my coat were soaked in sweat. I sat down on the suitcase, took out my handkerchief to wipe off my neck and face. Two boys stopped in front of me and started staring at me. I managed to recompose myself and was intensely looking at a nearby building entrance as if I was waiting for someone. The boys whispered at each other pointing at me with their fingers. I was furious. If I could only strike them with tetanus!

And just because of those blasted little boys, I stand up, pick up my suitcase, walk into the nearby building and look inside.

"How strange," I say loudly, pick up my suitcase and drag it off to the streetcar stop.

I got to the train station at five to seven. I buy a round trip to Fox's Nose and get into the train.

There are two other people beside me: one of them looks like a worker; he is tired, sleeping with his hat down over his eyes. The other, a young man dressed in the stile of a country dandy: he wears a pink sweater under his coat, and curly hair comes out from under his hat. He smokes a cigarette through a bright green plastic cigarette holder.

I put down the suitcase between the benches and sit down. Sharp cramps in my stomach make me squeeze my fists hard so as not to scream from the pain.

I see two policemen on the platform, dragging some guy to the police station. He walks with his hands behind his back; his head lying on his chest.

The train is moving. I look at my watch: ten after seven.

Oh, how ecstatic I will be when dumping this old woman into the swamps! Too bad I didn't take a stick with me; I'll have to push her out the suitcase with my bare hands.

The dandy in pink sweater is staring at me obnoxiously. I turn my back to him and look out of the window.

There is a terrible skirmish in my stomach; but I clench my teeth, squeeze my fists and tense up my legs.

We pass Lanskaya and New Village. There is the gold tip of the Buddhist pagoda and there is the sea.

Suddenly, I jump up forgetting everything around me, and rush to the bathroom taking small steps. A powerful wave of nausea is swinging and spinning my consciousness...

The train slows down. We approach Lahta. I sit tight, afraid I'll get kicked out of the bathroom at the stop.

"Please move along! Please move along!"

The train moves off and I close my eyes with pleasure. Oh, sometimes these minutes are just as pleasant as when in love! My powers are weakened, and I know a terrible decline will follow.

The train stops again, at Olgino. This torture again! But this time around, the pain is a false alarm. My forehead is drenched in cold sweat and chills fly around my heart. I stand up for some time leaning my head against the wall. The train moves off again and the movement is alleviating my pain.

I gather all my powers and leave the bathroom walking unsteadily.

There is no one in the car. The worker and the country dandy in the pink sweater must've got off at Lahta or Olgino. I slowly approach the window by my seat. Suddenly, I stop and look inside dumbfounded. The suitcase is nowhere in sight. I must've walked to the wrong window. I jump to the next window. No suitcase. I jump back and forth, and run the whole car both directions, look under the benches, but can't find the suitcase anywhere.

Of course, how can I be wrong? Certainly, whilst I've been in the bathroom, my suitcase has been stolen. I could have foreseen this!

I sit on the bench with my eyes wide open, and for some odd reason I remember how the enamel cracked on the hot frying pan, back at Sakerdon Michailovich's place.

"What's happened to me?" I ask myself. "Who is ever going to believe I didn't kill the old woman? I'll be seized today, right here or in the city, on the train station - just like that man who was walking on the platform with his head lowered."

I go out to the corridor at the end of the carriage. The train is approaching Fox' Nose. Now it stops. But the steps of my carriage don't reach the ground so I have to jump down, and walk over to the waiting room. There is half an hour until the next train back to the city.

I walk to a forest nearby. There are juniper bushes here; once I am behind them, no one will be able to see me. I walk towards the bushes.

I see a large green caterpillar crawling over the ground. I kneel down and touch it with my fingers. It twists, shrinks violently several times, pleating itself in one direction, and in the other.

I look around me. There is no one that can see me. Light shivers run down my spine.

I lower my head and whisper softly:

"In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, now and hereafter and for ever more. Amen..."

....................................................................................................

On this note, I end my writing in the belief that it has dragged on quite enough already.

Uliana Tikhova

The Wreck of the Mary Deare (1959)




A disgraced merchant marine officer elects to stay aboard his sinking cargo ship in order to prove the vessel was deliberately scuttled and, as a result, vindicate his good name.

Solid, but a bit convoluted seaside thriller turned courtroom drama.

Ana Claudia Michels

Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969)




After a weekend of emotional honesty at an Esalen-style retreat, a Los Angeles sophisticates couple return to their life determined to embrace free love and complete openness.

Amazingly outdated and therefore unfunny sex comedy, must have been something at the time, though.

Anabela Belikova

New Stuff


(art: Chris Ware)

Who's That Girl?

Ilustrator: Jan Feindt


More at:

http://www.janfeindt.de/

Cathrin Rozenkran

From my vaults: Jenny Agutter

Jenny Sinkaberg

Romy (2009) (TV)


A bio-pic of Austrian actress Romy Schneider.

Over-average TV production which tells its story in fragmented scenes jumping back and forth in time and relies on the viewer's knowledge about Romy Schneider more than it does tell anything actually new.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Shanina Shaik

New York

Kornelia Strzelecka

Natalia Vodianova

Brynja Jónbjarnardóttir


Daniel Charms, 31 Plays, #31.6


The Old Woman - VI

I was walking down Nevskiy, deep in my thoughts. I should go to the super and tell him everything. And after I deal with the old woman, I shall wait in the bakery a whole day until I meet that pretty young lady again. I still owe her 48 kopecks. I had an excellent excuse to look for her. The vodka I drank was still working on me, and everything around me looked very very good.

On Fontanka I went over to a stall and bought myself a big mug of kvass. The kvass wasn't good, it was sour, and so I continued my trip with an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

On the corner of Liteynaya some drunk bumped into me and pushed me to one side. It's good that I don't have a revolver: I would have killed him on the spot.

I walked the rest of the way with my face disfigured by anger. Or so it seemed, as almost everyone I passed turned to look at me.

I walked into the super's office. There was a short dirty crooked bow legged blonde sitting at a desk, putting lipstick on whilst looking into a mirror.

"Where is the super?" I asked.

The blonde remained silent and kept applying her lipstick.

"Where is the super?" I asked again roughly.

"He'll be back tomorrow," said the short dirty crooked bow legged blonde.

I went back onto the street. A handicapped man was walking on the opposite side. He had a prosthetic leg that was hitting the pavement loudly; so was his walking stick. Six boys were running after him, imitating his walk.

I turned into my building and started walking up the stairs. I stopped on the second floor struck by an unpleasant thought: the old woman must've started to decompose. I forgot to close the widows and it's known fact that cadavers decompose faster in a room with the windows open. Stupidity! And that blasted super will be back only tomorrow! I stood hesitating for a few minutes, and then continued walking up the stairs.

Next to my apartment door I stopped again. Maybe I should go back to the bakery instead and wait for the pretty young lady to turn up. I would beg her to let me stay with her for a couple of nights. Suddenly I remembered that she already has bought bread today; obviously she won't come back the same day. It wouldn't work anyway.

I opened the door and walked into the corridor. There was a light at the end of it and Marya Vasilievna, holding a rug in one hand was rubbing another rug against it. Seeing me, she yelled:

"Shome old man was ashking for you!"

"What old man?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied Marya Vasilievna.

"When did he come?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Marya Vasilievna.

"Did you talk to the old man?" I asked Marya Vasilievna.

"Yesh, I did," replied Marya Vasilievna.

"How is it possible that you don't know when he came?" I said.

"About two hoursh ago," said Marya Vasilievna.

"What did this old man look like?" I asked.

"I don't know that eijer," said Marya Vasilievna and went off into the kitchen.

I walked towards my room.

"What if," I thought, "The old woman disappeared? I'll walk into my room and there will be no old woman. My God! Is it possible that there are no miracles left in this world?"

I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. Maybe I was a little sensitive, but I thought I could detect the sickly sweet smell of a decomposing body. I looked through the slightly open door and froze for a second: the old woman was crawling towards me on all fours.

I screamed and slammed the door, turned the key in the lock and jumped onto the opposite wall.

Marya Vasilievna appeared in the corridor.

"Are you talking to me?" she asked.

My body trembled so badly that I couldn't possibly answer her, so I only shook my head in reply. Marya Vasilievna came closer.

"You jusht talked to shomebody," she said.

I shook my head again.

"Crajy," said Marya Vasilievna and went back to the kitchen, turning few times to look at me.

"I cannot just stand here. I cannot just stand here," I said to myself. This sentence formed itself somewhere inside my head. I kept on repeating it until it reached my consciousness.

"Yes, I cannot just stand here," I said to myself, but yet I was rooted to the spot as if paralyzed. Something terrible had happened, but there was something more terrible that has to be done, more terrible than what has just happened. My thoughts were like a whirlwind twirling around and around, and all I saw was the malicious gaze of the dead old woman as she slowly crawled towards me on all fours.

I'll run into the room and crush that old woman's scull; that's what I'll do! I searched with my eyes and was happy to discover a croquet mallet that's been lying for no reason in a corner of the corridor for the past few years. I'll grab the mallet, burst into the room and bang!

My body was shivering still. I stood there petrified, my shoulders raised, my insides cold as ice. My thoughts jumped from the beginning to the end and back again, conquering new areas and I stood and listened to my thoughts and I felt as if I was a mere witness and not their master.

"Those stiffs", my thoughts explained to me, "are bad people. Calling them stiffs is not quite right, because they aren't in the least stiff. They have to be watched at all times. Ask any morgue watchman. Why do you think he has his job? The only reason is to make sure that the dead aren't running away. Some really bizarre things happened. One cadaver, while the watchman was taking a shower, crawled out of the morgue, into a disinfecting room where he feasted on a pile of linen. Naturally, the disinfecting workers gave him a good beating, but nevertheless had to pay for the damages with their own money. Another corpse crawled into a maternity ward and scared everyone to such a degree that one of the women in labor suffered a premature birth, prompting the corpse to grab the ejected baby and begin devouring it. But when one brave nurse struck the corpse on the back, he bit her leg and she died soon after because her blood was infected with his poison. Yes, stiffs are nasty alright and you should always watch out for them."

"Wait a minute!" I said to myself. "You're talking nonsense. The dead are always stiff."

"Oh really?" my thoughts were telling me, "then you go into your room where, according to you, there is a stiff corpse."

Uncertainty was growing inside me.

"No problem!" I said to my thoughts firmly.

"Go on then!" my thoughts said to me mockingly.

The mocking tone finally infuriated me. I grabbed the croquet mallet and rushed towards the door.

"Wait!" yelled my thoughts. But it was too late, as I already opened the door. The old woman was lying on the threshold, her face buried in the floor.

I raised the mallet over my head and was ready to attack. But the old woman wasn't moving.

My shivering seizure has passed and my thoughts were clear and firm. Once more, I was their commander. "First of all: close the door!" I ordered myself.

I removed the key from the outer keyhole and inserted it from the inside. I did this with my left hand whilst holding the mallet with my right and watching fiercely the old woman. I locked the door, carefully stepped over the old woman's body and moved to the center of the room.

"Now you will pay," I said.

I suddenly had a plan that to my recollection is commonly used by killers in crime stories and newspaper articles; I'll simply shove the old woman in a suitcase, carry her out of the city and dump her in the swamps. I even knew the perfect spot.

I had a suitcase that I kept under the sofa. I pulled it out and opened it. There were a few things inside it: several books, an old hat, some old torn linen. I dumped everything on the sofa.

The entrance door slammed with a loud bang, and I was under the impression that I caught a slight movement with the corner of my eye.

I jumped up immediately and grabbed the croquet mallet.

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator: Tim Dinter


More here:

http://www.timdinter.de

Natalia Kozior

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

From my vaults: Christina Aguilera

Bianca Balti

New York


Hotel Chelsea (2008)
ph: Takuji Kubo

Ania Jozwiak

Daniel Charms, 31 Plays, #31.5


The Old Woman - V

I was walking down Nevskiy, deep in my thoughts. I should go to the super and tell him everything. And after I deal with the old woman, I shall wait in the bakery a whole day until I meet that pretty young lady again. I still owe her 48 kopecks. I had an excellent excuse to look for her. The vodka I drank was still working on me, and everything around me looked very very good.

On Fontanka I went over to a stall and bought myself a big mug of kvass. The kvass wasn't good, it was sour, and so I continued my trip with an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

On the corner of Liteynaya some drunk bumped into me and pushed me to one side. It's good that I don't have a revolver: I would have killed him on the spot.

I walked the rest of the way with my face disfigured by anger. Or so it seemed, as almost everyone I passed turned to look at me.

I walked into the super's office. There was a short dirty crooked bow legged blonde sitting at a desk, putting lipstick on whilst looking into a mirror.

"Where is the super?" I asked.

The blonde remained silent and kept applying her lipstick.

"Where is the super?" I asked again roughly.

"He'll be back tomorrow," said the short dirty crooked bow legged blonde.

I went back onto the street. A handicapped man was walking on the opposite side. He had a prosthetic leg that was hitting the pavement loudly; so was his walking stick. Six boys were running after him, imitating his walk.

I turned into my building and started walking up the stairs. I stopped on the second floor struck by an unpleasant thought: the old woman must've started to decompose. I forgot to close the widows and it's known fact that cadavers decompose faster in a room with the windows open. Stupidity! And that blasted super will be back only tomorrow! I stood hesitating for a few minutes, and then continued walking up the stairs.

Next to my apartment door I stopped again. Maybe I should go back to the bakery instead and wait for the pretty young lady to turn up. I would beg her to let me stay with her for a couple of nights. Suddenly I remembered that she already has bought bread today; obviously she won't come back the same day. It wouldn't work anyway.

I opened the door and walked into the corridor. There was a light at the end of it and Marya Vasilievna, holding a rug in one hand was rubbing another rug against it. Seeing me, she yelled:

"Shome old man was ashking for you!"

"What old man?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied Marya Vasilievna.

"When did he come?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Marya Vasilievna.

"Did you talk to the old man?" I asked Marya Vasilievna.

"Yesh, I did," replied Marya Vasilievna.

"How is it possible that you don't know when he came?" I said.

"About two hoursh ago," said Marya Vasilievna.

"What did this old man look like?" I asked.

"I don't know that eijer," said Marya Vasilievna and went off into the kitchen.

I walked towards my room.

"What if," I thought, "The old woman disappeared? I'll walk into my room and there will be no old woman. My God! Is it possible that there are no miracles left in this world?"

I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. Maybe I was a little sensitive, but I thought I could detect the sickly sweet smell of a decomposing body. I looked through the slightly open door and froze for a second: the old woman was crawling towards me on all fours.

I screamed and slammed the door, turned the key in the lock and jumped onto the opposite wall.

Marya Vasilievna appeared in the corridor.

"Are you talking to me?" she asked.

My body trembled so badly that I couldn't possibly answer her, so I only shook my head in reply. Marya Vasilievna came closer.

"You jusht talked to shomebody," she said.

I shook my head again.

"Crajy," said Marya Vasilievna and went back to the kitchen, turning few times to look at me.

"I cannot just stand here. I cannot just stand here," I said to myself. This sentence formed itself somewhere inside my head. I kept on repeating it until it reached my consciousness.

"Yes, I cannot just stand here," I said to myself, but yet I was rooted to the spot as if paralyzed. Something terrible had happened, but there was something more terrible that has to be done, more terrible than what has just happened. My thoughts were like a whirlwind twirling around and around, and all I saw was the malicious gaze of the dead old woman as she slowly crawled towards me on all fours.

I'll run into the room and crush that old woman's scull; that's what I'll do! I searched with my eyes and was happy to discover a croquet mallet that's been lying for no reason in a corner of the corridor for the past few years. I'll grab the mallet, burst into the room and bang!

My body was shivering still. I stood there petrified, my shoulders raised, my insides cold as ice. My thoughts jumped from the beginning to the end and back again, conquering new areas and I stood and listened to my thoughts and I felt as if I was a mere witness and not their master.

"Those stiffs", my thoughts explained to me, "are bad people. Calling them stiffs is not quite right, because they aren't in the least stiff. They have to be watched at all times. Ask any morgue watchman. Why do you think he has his job? The only reason is to make sure that the dead aren't running away. Some really bizarre things happened. One cadaver, while the watchman was taking a shower, crawled out of the morgue, into a disinfecting room where he feasted on a pile of linen. Naturally, the disinfecting workers gave him a good beating, but nevertheless had to pay for the damages with their own money. Another corpse crawled into a maternity ward and scared everyone to such a degree that one of the women in labor suffered a premature birth, prompting the corpse to grab the ejected baby and begin devouring it. But when one brave nurse struck the corpse on the back, he bit her leg and she died soon after because her blood was infected with his poison. Yes, stiffs are nasty alright and you should always watch out for them."

"Wait a minute!" I said to myself. "You're talking nonsense. The dead are always stiff."

"Oh really?" my thoughts were telling me, "then you go into your room where, according to you, there is a stiff corpse."

Uncertainty was growing inside me.

"No problem!" I said to my thoughts firmly.

"Go on then!" my thoughts said to me mockingly.

The mocking tone finally infuriated me. I grabbed the croquet mallet and rushed towards the door.

"Wait!" yelled my thoughts. But it was too late, as I already opened the door. The old woman was lying on the threshold, her face buried in the floor.

I raised the mallet over my head and was ready to attack. But the old woman wasn't moving.

My shivering seizure has passed and my thoughts were clear and firm. Once more, I was their commander. "First of all: close the door!" I ordered myself.

I removed the key from the outer keyhole and inserted it from the inside. I did this with my left hand whilst holding the mallet with my right and watching fiercely the old woman. I locked the door, carefully stepped over the old woman's body and moved to the center of the room.

"Now you will pay," I said.

I suddenly had a plan that to my recollection is commonly used by killers in crime stories and newspaper articles; I'll simply shove the old woman in a suitcase, carry her out of the city and dump her in the swamps. I even knew the perfect spot.

I had a suitcase that I kept under the sofa. I pulled it out and opened it. There were a few things inside it: several books, an old hat, some old torn linen. I dumped everything on the sofa.

The entrance door slammed with a loud bang, and I was under the impression that I caught a slight movement with the corner of my eye.

I jumped up immediately and grabbed the croquet mallet.