Saturday, February 13, 2010

Agota Luksaite

From my vaults: Albert Anastasia


Anna Gorcea

New Stuff

Ellen De Corte

New York


Charles Baudelaire: The Balcony

(art: Ruth Norman)


by: Charles Baudelaire

OTHER of memories, mistress of mistresses,
O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire,
Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses,
The charm of evenings by the gentle fire,
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!

The eves illumined by the burning coal,
The balcony where veiled rose-vapour clings--
How soft your breast was then, how sweet your soul!
Ah, and we said imperishable things,
Those eves illumined by the burning coal.

Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm,
And space profound, and strong life's pulsing flood,
In bending o'er you, queen of every charm,
I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.
The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm.

The film of night flowed round and over us,
And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet;
I drank your breath, ah! sweet and poisonous,
And in my hands fraternal slept your feet--
Night, like a film, flowed round and over us.

I can recall those happy days forgot,
And see, with head bowed on your knees, my past.
Your languid beauties now would move me not
Did not your gentle heart and body cast
The old spell of those happy days forgot.

Can vows and perfumes, kisses infinite,
Be reborn from the gulf we cannot sound;
As rise to heaven suns once again made bright
After being plunged in deep seas and profound?
Ah, vows and perfumes, kisses infinite!

Kiera Gormley

ph: Marcin Tyszka

New Stuff

Ester Apelskog

Natalia Vodianova

Marisa Miller

The Golden Compass (2007)

In a parallel universe, a young girl journeys to the far North to save her best friend and other kidnapped children from terrible experiments by a mysterious organization.

Visually quite appealing fantasy which, however, goes over the top concerning the credibility of the story (yes, even a fantasy story should be somehow coherent).

Jana Flototto

New Stuff

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator: Henning Wagenbreth

Find more at:

From my vaults: Namie Amuro


Alexa Yudina

ph: Emma Summerton

Kate Moss irrégulière

ph: Craig McDean

Katarina Ivanovska

New Stuff

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Mirka Michlikova

ph: Ondrio Koh

New York

Camila Fruet

ph: Danilo Sanchez

Djuna Barnes: What Do You See, Madam?

What Do You See, Madam?

Mamie Saloam was a dancer.

She had come from the lower stratum of the poor, who drape their shoulders with cotton and their stomachs with gingham.

The Bowery, which is no place at all for virtue or duplicity, had seen Mamie try on her first fit of sulks and her first stay laces. They knew then that her pattern was Juno, her heritage Joseph, and her ambition jade. At the age of ten she had learned to interpret Oscar Wilde, when Oscar Wilde had gone in, rather extensively, for passion and the platter, and had parried off creation with a movement and a beard.

On that moonlit night, when she chucked Semco, the sailor, under the chin, and swiped one of the park lilacs for keeps, Mamie grew up.

Between his lips and hers she had learned competition. His was the greater kiss, his arms the greater strength, his voice the master voice.

Mamie became fire and felt hell where it burns low among the coals, and the street that sensed her homecoming on staccato heels heard the wide-mouthed laughter she threw her mother as she rolled into bed.

Thereafter she swore that her life should be given to portraying detached emotions, to placing love on the boards. Her ambition was to kiss the lips of John the Baptist as they lay in plaster glory upon a little tin plate.

When a subaltern puts his head under cover, he is a coward. When Mamie Saloam sought the underside of the counterpane, she was merely looking for future ethics.

Mamie twisted the Bowery out of her air, threw her hips into the maelstrom of rightly moving things, and raised an organism of potato and cod to the level of caviar and champagne. When she turned about, she had taken three steps in the direction of the proverbial gentleman who follows after the world and the flesh.

The rich and the poor are divided only in the matter of scorn: eye scorn, lip scorn, and the sudden rude laughter that runs the gamut of Broadway. All these leaped into Mamie's saucy face as she looked at herself for the first time in a mirror that gave her back, whole.

When she walked out, one heard only the sound of slum slippers and the regular cadence of her knees as she descended the steps. She was used to uneven footing.

After the mirror she swore that she had taken the last cod bone from between her teeth and now she would chew only after-dinner mints.

When a girl gives up gum and alleys, and has known little else, she becomes something different, and the something different that Mamie became was a dancer, toe and otherwise.

Into the little world of the painted came Mamie. Into that place of press-agents and powder-puffs, of Lillian Russell and Raymond Hitchcock, of Irving and of Sarah, scented with lilac and Bel Bon, throbbing and pulsating with the sound of laughter; into that little stall called the dressing room, out of which none may come unchanged.

Mamie Saloam was a good medium on which to lay cosmetics. Everything merely accentuated those points that God and the Saloams had given her; in fact, the teamwork between the two had been sublime. Mamie was beautiful.

She was loved by the men down front because she had mastered the technique of the tights.

Her world held rows and rows of dusty caned chairs, and over these, like migrating robins, the pink anatomy of the chorus -- hips thrown out against the painted drop, listless eyes that saw only supper, a new step, and once in a while, some other things. Mamie Saloam could go where she willed. She could stoop or look up because Mamie breathed true ambition and heroic drudgery.

When she passed the boundaries of decency, it was a full run for your money; when she went up in smoke, those original little pasty pans of Egypt became chimney pots. If Helen of Troy could have been seen eating peppermints out of a paper bag, it is highly probable that her admirers would have been an entirely different class.

It is the thing you are found doing while the horde looks on that you shall be loved for -- or ignored.

Billy had caught Mamie pinning "Thou shalt not sin" up high on the door of her room in the house of chameleon thoughts. He then knew -- for even electricians can know things -- that the way to approach Mamie was to sit close and abide in hope, for opportunity comes once to every man.

While he waited, Mamie made up her one philosophy. It was made, of course, for the benefit of women. It read: "A woman never knows what she sees, therefore, she tries to see what she knows."

"Listen," said the stage manager one night from out of the gloom where Mamie sat restringing the beads that passed for combinations, underskirt, shift petticoat, bodice skirt, and withal, propriety for Salome. "Listen, we are in a fix. The P.I.B. is on to us and you."

"In what way?" inquired Mamie Saloam.

"They have gotten on to the fact that early in the season we are to present you as Salome. They have prejudices--"

"Of course they have," said Mamie calmly; "they have seen Mme. Aguglia, Mary Garden, Gertrude Hoffman, and Trixie Friganza do the stunt; they have all seen what they wanted to see because the aforesaid showed them what they wanted to see. I'll admit that John hasn't been properly loved since the original gurgle ceased; I'll admit that as we have gotten further and further away from the real head, we have dealt with rather papier-mâché passions.

"John was rather lethargic in his response even in the beginning, and we have made too much fuss over him. When a man is dead, a certain respect is due him; it is a proper and a joyous thing to dance about him, but I do think he has been rather overkissed. I will show the ladies of the P.I.B. the necessary moderation, even if the gentleman is helpless. Leave it to me."

"By the way," she added as the stage manager pondered, his hand in his hair, "what is the P.I.B.?"

"It is the Prevention of Impurities upon the Boards," he said, and smiled at her.

"And what do they want?"

"They either want the performance stopped or -- they want to see a purely impartial rendering."

Billy looked at her from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. Then suddenly he let go of the thing that is called reserve and took her hand.

"Mamie," he said, "couldn't you respond to me; couldn't I ever be anything to you; couldn't I make up for all this" -- he waved his arm broadcast -- "this ambition stuff?"

"Billy," she said, and her voice was cold and practical, "I couldn't ever boil potatoes over the heat of your affection. Your love would never bridge a gap; it wouldn't even fill up the hole that the mice came through, and," she concluded, withdrawing her hand, "I couldn't ever consider anyone less than John."

Deep down in Billy's heart lay a terrible passion that itched to force this allegorical obstacle from between him and the woman. As he sat in his perch up in the wings and focused the blue light upon the platter and the white upturned plaster face, he knew what had put the word la mort into the dictionary and into circulation, and he groaned within his soul.

The next day they took away the dusty rows of chairs, the heaps of discarded tights, shed by human butterflies that had grown into something more brilliant or had died emerging from the chrysalis prematurely. They did not notice that it was dusty until they saw two spots some three inches apart, which looked as if someone had fallen upon his knees.

They did not speculate any further, but Mamie saw.

The stage hands cleaned and fussed in preparation for the trial scene to be given for the benefit of the P.I.B. A pitcher, belonging to the dresser, very much cracked, and yet gaudy as the owner, was filled with lemonade, which first frosted the outside like a young woman's demeanor when holding the young man off, and finally broke out into great beads and slid over the hips of the pitcher to the table below like the tears that follow up the first grief.

It was quite dark back stage when they were through. The little bags of ballast that let down Florida or France from the ceiling hung swaying fifty feet above Billy as he tinkered with the lights.

Out front sat the stage manager between the starched ladies of the P.I.B., drinking the lemonade gently yet firmly from tall, frail glasses. They looked at each other across the chain-encircled vest of the stage manager with the macaw look which is strictly limited to boards of prevention and committees for inspection.

They would like to think well of Mamie Saloam, but as Mamie said, they had seen Mme. Aguglia.

Then out across the dusky stage came Mamie, tall and dominating. Her bares shoulders supported vivid streams of her hair.

For a minute she stood poised in the center of the stage, a voluptuous outline in the mist.

Then the spotlight fell, not upon Mamie, but upon the face of John, upturned and white, with half-closed lids, the hair and beard flowing over the edge of the plate. Dark loops broke the dead white of the forehead, a silent questioning of the painted lips awaiting the performance of Mamie Saloam, who had learned to kiss ten years before.

The ladies of the P.I.B., not to be fooled, leaned sternly over their glasses. They wanted to be sure that there was a simplicity in the way Mamie Saloam wallowed before her lord.

On she came, halting, and then suddenly broke into a semicircle of half-steps about the head of the dead Baptist, gurgling, throaty little noises escaping her lips. Slowly she lowered herself until, imperceptibly to the starched ladies, she lay upon the floor and sinuously wriggled toward the tin platter.

Sidewise, forward, approaching it with plastic hands, nearer and nearer and nearer till the platter was within the zone of her very breath. Over it she hovered, murmuring, while her eyes changed from blue to green and from green to deep opal. Then suddenly she dropped her chin among the strands of the flowing beard.

The starched ladies sighed and relaxed. Here was a woman at last who could do the thing with perfect impartiality. They turned approving eyes upon the manager.

"She has John under perfect control," they said, and passed out.

Then Mamie did a strange thing. She sat up, put her arms about her knees, and looked serenely at the face still motionless in the blue of the light from the unoccupied electrician's box. John the Baptist batted his right eye.

"Get up, Billy," she said. "It's all right. Let us thank the dark of a back stage night, and your ability to lie still. At last I have proved that a woman never knows what she is seeing."

Noreen Carmody

ph: David Oldham

New Stuff

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator: Sam Van Olffen

Find more at:

Kasey Sorokina

ph: Eliza Phua, Ivanho Harlim

From my vaults: Morey Amsterdam


Yulia Terentieva

New York

Aleksandra Rastovic

Jack Kerouac: Ecerpt from On the Road

I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won't bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life you could call my life on the road. Before that I'd often dreamed of going West to see the country, always vaguely planning and never taking off. Dean is the perfect guy for the road because he actually was born on the road, when his parents were passing through Salt Lake City in 1926, in a jalopy, on their way to Los Angeles. First reports of him came to me through Chad King, who'd shown me a few letters from him written in a New Mexico reform school. I was tremendously interested in the letters because they so naively and sweetly asked Chad to teach him all about Nietzsche and all the wonderful intellectual things that Chad knew. At one point Carlo and I talked about the letters and wondered if we would ever meet the strange Dean Moriarty. This is all far back, when Dean was not the way he is today, when he was a young jailkid shrouded in mystery. Then news came that Dean was out of reform school and was coming to New York for the first time; also there was talk that he had just married a girl called Marylou.

One day I was hanging around the campus and Chad and Tim Gray told me Dean was staying in a cold-water pad in East Harlem, the Spanish Harlem. Dean had arrived the night before, the first time in New York, with his beautiful little sharp chick Marylou; they got off the Greyhound bus at 50th Street and cut around the corner looking for a place to eat and went right in Hector's, and since then Hector's cafeteria has always been a big symbol of New York for Dean. They spent money on beautiful big glazed cakes and creampuffs.

All this time Dean was telling Marylou things like this: "Now, darling, here we are in New York and although I haven't quite told you everything that I was thinking about when we crossed Missouri and especially at the point when we passed the Booneville reformatory which reminded me of my jail problem, it is absolutely necessary now to postpone all those leftover things concerning our personal lovethings and at once begin thinking of specific worklife plans . . ." and so on in the way that he had in those early days.

Who's That Girl?

Illustrator: Keith Peters

Monday, February 8, 2010

Mengyao Xi

From my vaults: Dominique Amphonesinh

Maria Rakusova

New Stuff

(art: Ana Juan)

Charlotte Høyer

Vignettes #50

The first years after having emigrated to Germany my sister and I spent most of our time after school with our German grandparents, since our parents both had jobs and worked till in the evening.

My German grandmother ('Oma') was a horribly pious Catholic and very active in all kinds of organisations within our parish like the woman's club and the so-called old folks' club. Besides having to join her on her daily church attendance (praying the rosemary) we also were forced to attend all those club meetings, while my pals were out having a great time playing.

Our Oma was second chairman of the old folks' club which consisted of about 200 old people from the parish. She was in some kind of competition with the first chairman, so one afternoon during Advent I was to recite a Christmas poem, since the first chairman's grandson would be doing the same.

Well, this kid, maybe 9 or 10, about a year younger than me, did his poem extremely well with no faults and with all the expression and pathos the folks liked to hear. I instantly hated this kid.

Then it was my turn, and although I usually am quite good at learning things by heart, I got stuck in the midst of my recital. My Oma who stood next to me was obviously embarrassed and annoyed and handed me the text to read the rest of the poem. And all those old people were shaking their heads in disbelief.

Despite not having wanted to disappoint my Oma the incident did have one advantage for me: I never had to attend one of those meetings ever again.

Katie Braatvedt

New York