Saturday, February 27, 2010

Tatiana Cotliar

From my vaults: Mary Anderson

Actress Mary Anderson (R) performing in a scene from the play Guest in the House.
In this photo: Mary Anderson
Photo: George Karger/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images
Jan 01, 1942

Magdalena Muzyka

New Stuff: Johnny Cash

To my surprise there is now a 6th volume to this great series. It is not just because I'm a completist, moreover I do expect some good music on this latest edition.

Erin O'Connor

New York

Chrishell Stubbs

New Stuff: Xiu Xiu

Xiu Xiu always come up with fresh and wonderful new music, so I never miss out on a new album, especially when it has such a great title ('Dear God, I Hate Myself').

Josefin Hedstrom

Emily Dickinson: A bird came down the walk

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

Dafne Cejas

New Stuff: Essential Logic

Essential Logic is - sorry for the pun - essentially Lora Logic, who previously played sax in the wonderful punk band X-Ray Spex. At the time I had a crush on Lora and her music and I had all her albums. I still have the Essential Logic LP, but I'm missing her solo album Pedigree Charm ( "a great forgotten album of the era"). It seems that this special edition includes most matrial of both albums, so I'm quite excited to hear Lora and her sax again.

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator : Marco Tadic

Find more at:

Olivia Gordon

New Stuff: Joanna Newsom

Would never want to miss out on a new album by Joanna Newsom, and this one has very promising reviews, and it's sensationally a 3-CD-box this time!

Friday, February 26, 2010

Katya Kulyzhka

From my vaults: Marian Anderson

Viktoria Sekrier

New York

Nicole Hofman

New Stuff: Judy Henske and Jerry Yester

Natasa Vojnovic

ph: Paola Kudacki

Natalia Vodianova

Cordelia Kuznetsova

ph: Dimitris Skoylos

New Stuff: The Mary Tyler Moore Show Season 1

Juana Burga

ph: Rafo Iparraguirre

William S. Burroughs: The Cat Inside

(ph: Daniel Riskin)

Back to present time with a weary sigh. There will be fewer and fewer exotic, beautiful animals. The Mexican hairless cat is aleady extinct. The tiny three-pound wild cats that can be easily tamed are always rarer, further away, plaintive lost spirits for the human hand that will never come, fragile and sad as a boat of dead leaves launched in a park pond by a child. Or the phosphorent bats that emerge once every seven years to fill the air with impossible riots of perfume...melodious, distant calls from the bat cats and gliding lemurs...the rain forests of Borneo and South America are make way for what?

Helena Kornilova

New Stuff: Scott Walker

Sharon Kavjian

ph: Angelo Pannetta

Kate Moss irrégulière

Kristina Krivomazova

ph: Jonathan Waiter

New Stuff

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator : Eric Schockmel

Find more at:

Monday, February 22, 2010

Jasmine Poulton

From my vaults: Lindsay Anderson


Ella Petrushko

New Stuff

Mena Suvari

Natalia Vodianova

Charlene Almarvez

ph: Dix Perez

New York

Sydney Edmonds

ph: James Mahon

Stéphane Mallarmé: The Afternoon of a Faun

(Vaslav Nijinski et Bronislava ninjinska dans "L'après midi d'un faune")

The Afternoon of a Faun


by Stephane Mallarme

Translation from French by Roger Fry


These nymphs I would perpetuate.

So clear

Their light carnation, that it floats in the air

Heavy with tufted slumbers.

Was it a dream I loved?

My doubt, a heap of ancient night, is finishing

In many a subtle branch, which, left the true

Wood itself, proves, alas! that all alone I gave

Myself for triumph the ideal sin of roses.

Let me reflect

. . .if the girls of which you tell

Figure a wish of your fabulous senses!

Faun, the illusion escapes from the blue eyes

And cold, like a spring in tears, of the chaster one:

But, the other, all sighs, do you say she contrasts

Like a breeze of hot day in your fleece!

But no! through the still, weary faintness

Choking with heat the fresh morn if it strives,

No water murmurs but what my flute pours

On the chord sprinkled thicket; and the sole wind

Prompt to exhale from my two pipes, before

It scatters the sound in a waterless shower,

Is, on the horizon's unwrinkled space,

The visible serene artificial breath

Of inspiration, which regains the sky.

Oh you, Sicilian shores of a calm marsh

That more than the suns my vanity havocs,

Silent beneath the flowers of sparks, RELATE

"That here I was cutting the hollow reeds tamed

By talent, when on the dull gold of the distant

Verdures dedicating their vines to the springs,

There waves an animal whiteness at rest:

And that to the prelude where the pipes first stir

This flight of swans, no! Naiads, flies

Or plunges . . ."

Inert, all burns in the fierce hour

Nor marks by what art all at once bolted

Too much hymen desired by who seeks the Ia:

Then shall I awake to the primitive fervour,

Straight and alone, 'neath antique floods of light,

Lilies and one of you all through my ingenuousness.

As well as this sweet nothing their lips purr,

The kiss, which a hush assures of the perfid ones,

My breast, though proofless, still attests a bite

Mysterious, due to some august tooth;

But enough! for confidant such mystery chose

The great double reed which one plays 'neath the blue:

Which, the cheek's trouble turning to itself

Dreams, in a solo long, we might amuse

Surrounding beauties by confusions false

Between themselves and our credulous song;

And to make, just as high as love modulates,

Die out of the everyday dream of a back

Or a pure flank followed by my curtained eyes,

An empty, sonorous, monotonous line.

Try then, instrument of flights, oh malign

Syrinx, to reflower by the lakes where you wait for me!

I, proud of my rumour, for long I will talk

Of goddesses; and by picturings idolatrous,

From their shades unloose yet more of their girdles:

So when of grapes the clearness I've sucked,

To banish regret by my ruse disavowed,

Laughing, I lift the empty bunch to the sky,

Blowing into its luminous skins and athirst

To be drunk, till the evening I keep looking through.

Oh nymphs, we diverse MEMORIES refill.

"My eye, piercing the reeds, shot at each immortal

Neck, which drowned its burning in the wave

With a cry of rage to the forest sky;

And the splendid bath of their hair disappears

In the shimmer and shuddering, oh diamonds!

I run, when, there at my feet, enlaced. Lie (hurt by the languor they taste to be two)

Girls sleeping amid their own casual arms; them I seize, and not disentangling them, fly

To this thicket, hated by the frivilous shade,

Of roses drying up their scent in the sun

Where our delight may be like the day sun-consumed."

I adore it, the anger of virgins, the wild

Delight of the sacred nude burden which slips

To escape from my hot lips drinking, as lightning

Flashes! the secret terror of the flesh:

From the feet of the cruel one to the heart of the timid

Who together lose an innocence, humid

With wild tears or less sorrowful vapours.

"My crime is that I, gay at conquering the treacherous

Fears, the dishevelled tangle divided

Of kisses, the gods kept so well commingled;

For before I could stifle my fiery laughter

In the happy recesses of one (while I kept

With a finger alone, that her feathery whiteness

Should be dyed by her sister's kindling desire,

The younger one, naive and without a blush)

When from my arms, undone by vague failing,

This pities the sob wherewith I was still drunk."

Ah well, towards happiness others will lead me

With their tresses knotted to the horns of my brow:

You know, my passion, that purple and just ripe,

The pomegranates burst and murmur with bees;

And our blood, aflame for her who will take it,

Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire.

At the hour when this wood's dyed with gold and with ashes

A festival glows in the leafage extinguished:

Etna! 'tis amid you, visited by Venus

On your lava fields placing her candid feet,

When a sad stillness thunders wherein the flame dies.

I hold the queen!

O penalty sure . . .

No, but the soul

Void of word and my body weighed down

Succumb in the end to midday's proud silence:

No more, I must sleep, forgetting the outrage,

On the thirsty sand lying, and as I delight

Open my mouth to wine's potent star!

Adieu, both! I shall see the shade you became.

Original version:

Zuzanna Krzatala

ph: David Oldham

Topaz (1969)

A French intelligence agent becomes embroiled in the Cold War politics first with uncovering the events leading up to the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, and then back to France to break up an international Russian spy ring.

Amazingly average Cold War spy thriller compared to the director's usual brilliance in this genre.

Portia de Rossi

Kate Moss irrégulière