Seeing a fallen Sequoia is such a saddening thing. The scale of that tree alone against the endless crowd of munchkins and horses sitting atop it — my god. I can only imagine how many hundreds, if not thousands, of years old that giant was. A tragedy. I hope the pioneers enjoyed that giant pencil.
I come across many a carte viste and wrinkled photograph in my antique store and internet trawlings, and I am so much more interested in the portraits of the unlikely beauties: not the pouty lipped, perfectly bouffanted socialite of 1880, but her wan complected, wonky-nosed, slightly “off” counterpart. These are the women whose stories I want to know. It scares me a little to know that photos of me (and everyone else who feels mild trepidation when having their photo taken) might float through the antique and vintage “pass around” system one hundred years from now, but seeing these imperfect, oh-so-endearing women makes me feel confident in my future.
[Etsy vintage sellers, from top: johnnyvintage // obscurio // ohmymilky // obscurio // NostalgiqueArt // InspirationSnapshots // DrawingRoom]
I’ve been busy as all get out this week, so I haven’t been able to post nearly as much as I’d like. This weekend is my bloggin’ time! For more photo indulgences, check out my Tumblr.
“There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.” — Hamlet
[Editorial via Korean Vogue Girl - April 2007]
“In the poison’d entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.” — The Three Weird Sisters from Shakespeare’s MacBeth
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Alison Scarpulla is a witchy woman, and I love it. Crystal balls are meant to be worshipped.
Some of my most treasured memories from childhood involve going to the local campground (Spook Cave in the house!) to tramp through the low-hanging trees and pokey trails, play on ancient playground equipment and set up our worn orange pup tent for a night filled with owl hoots and the sound of far-off trains. All of this was preceded, of course, by the construction of a ramshackle campfire, making s’mores with marshmallows and a jumbo bar of Hershey’s, creating shadow plays on the tent’s glowing walls and catching fireflies in the dark. These recollections make my summer.
Annnnd, I couldn’t mention camping without bringing up the time that my sister accidentally peed while going down the slide at the campsite. (Sorry, Jasmine, but the abrupt switch in your pants in all of the photos from that trip is goddamn hilarious to this day.)
[Photos by Greg Stimac via Booooooooom]
Julia Solis has my dream job. She explores and photographs forgotten, paint-chipped mental hospitals, ancient tunnels beneath the city streets, and the detritus left behind after institutions fall into disrepair and become obsolete. Basically, abandonment city — cue my sincere and hand-wringingly strong lust to join her on these journeys. She gains access to the kinds of places I only stare at from a distance, wishing I had the cojones to actually climb over a barb wire fence and risk stigmata to my delicate paws.
She’s done more incredible work than I could ever show in one blog post, but these photos of abandoned theaters — the series is aptly titled “Stages of Decay” — made me lose my breath. To imagine all of the dramatic enterprise hat once took place in those gilded, velvet lined amphitheaters, now hanging in tatters. The ghosts of former performances hang around, I’m sure, reliving their glory days.
For more of Julia’s work check out her website, Dark Passage, for a full portfolio of her travels. Her daily blog, Dark Passage Travelogue, explores the artistic artifacts found beneath the crumbling walls she scales. If you’re in New York, she frequently holds talks and sometimes accompanies the public on tours beneath the streets — but I may just be making this up. She’s rad.
I’m doing some guest posting over on sfgirlbybay in the coming week or two. Hop on over and check out my post on mugshots of the last century. Petty criminals and wonky eyes galore!
Any type of handmade costume is catnip to me — Jerri Blank-style elasticized mom jeans, weaves (any hair, really), the horned-and-furry Krampus from the Alps — but these West African variations are seriously mesmerizing. Every look is so varied and emotive — and that teeny tiny skull on the guy’s head? Totally Beetlejuice!
Photographer Phyllis Galembo has cataloged the masquerade here.
I’m an early bird. I fall asleep at grandma-esque hours (reading in bed at 9:30, passed out by 10) and rise with the sun. Going to the farmer’s market on the weekend is one of my most precious pastimes. I’m an amateur cook (and that’s a bit of an overstatement), but I can’t get enough of the sights and smells of roughage being snapped, raw cantaloupe flesh, the murmurs of conversation and the infinite expanse of dogs and babies. It’s my own religion, really; who needs to go to a stuffy church when I can salivate over the fragrant, beautiful fruits of the earth? I worship at the altar of the tangible.
[Photos via marcinema on flickr]
As a bit of a Tumblr addict, I’m continually on the prowl for interesting photography and themes. Fuck Yeah, Victorians! provides both: all Victorian, all the time, with strange gems (those tin types!), painterly inspiration and random tidbits. Sold.
[Via My Love for You, I think? I just fell in love with this Tumblr so fast that I kind of don't even remember.]
Wow. Ruth St. Denis is a vision. A pioneer of the modern dance movement, she was the mentor and teacher of Martha Graham and created a dance repertoire that melded her interests in exotic mysticism and spirituality. She was definitely one of the early adopters. She lived from 1879 to 1968.
I’m totally digging these photos from Ciara’s Paris Vogue editorial spread. I didn’t even recognize her! I’m totally impressed with the simplicity of the layouts, the lack of focus on bling and the subtext (meow!) — it’s much more than the sum of its parts.
[Via Garbage Dress]
I only learned to properly apply make up about two years ago, and this was only after begging my friend Jaime to show me her tricks (she always looks natural and glowing) and camping out at Sephora for many weekends to get free makeovers. Somehow I missed this rite of passage, in between being a huge book nerd and always falling asleep at 10 when I was at sleepovers. (I’m guessing all of the make up tutorials took place after I went to sleep and before they put my bra in the freezer.)
I’m proud to say that I can now successfully apply powders, face paints and elixirs and look pretty decent. However, my process is more “slap it on” and less step-by-step process, as these LIFE Magazine photos from the 1940s can attest. Seriously, whatever order is going on here: I want to know more. The triangle war paint is blowing my mind.
[Via LIFE Magazine Archives]
Sweet nostalgia! I’ve never lived on a farm, but growing up surrounded by pastures and farmland allowed me plenty of opportunities to appreciate them (…which I didn’t until I left Iowa. Funny how that works.) I have fond memories of chasing barn cats, picking concord grapes and skipping over hay bales — which resulted in scratched knees that smarted all summer — at my grandma’s farm. (It was worth it.) Whenever I visit my homeland I relish the sights and smells of doe-eyed cows, saucy chickens, and gentle horses. Nicole of Habit of Being’s beautifully photographed chickens make me want a little hen house of my own here in the city. The thought of little chicks running around makes my toes curl!
[Man with Dog; Distinguished Dude]
[Clockwise: Three Cats and a Dog; Great Dane and Couple; Baby and Dog; Biting Off More Than You Can Chew]
I know that I’m a dog person; I always have been, and I probably always will be. I’ve been trying to work my cat mojo as of late, but dogs just speak my language — I love their enthusiasm, their loyalty, the fact that they always know how to comfort you when you’re down and entertain you when you’re bored. Dog love goes a long way for me, and these antique photos show that I’m not the only one that’s felt that way. Also, can we talk about the dogs in the photo scene?! MOST AMAZING PHOTO.
DAMN. Alex Prager evokes the most sumptuous associations for me: Cindy Sherman, Quentin Tarantino, Hitchcock, John Waters and every (insert genre)-spoitation film of the 1970s. The colors, the casualness of the shots, the sinister details of the compositions — hanging ropes, bum fires, drowning — I love it.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Polar exploration since reading a fascinating story of S.S. Andrée’s ill-fated attempt to fly over the North Pole in a hydrogen balloon in 1897 (an incredible read: I highly recommend it). Both North and South Poles were bleak, far-flung locales (the ends of the Earth, literally) that challenged a generation of explorers to layer up and lose a toe or two. The endless bleached tundra and and glacier hunks are so untouched. It’s a scary place (the temperatures alone freak me out), but so intriguing — look at that sea elephant skeleton and midnight sun! I wish there was somewhere still totally untouched by humans left on Earth.
Sabine Pigalle creates such stark, striking scenes out of black and white. They’re like arty advertisements for a mythical life with keys to hidden chambers and half drunk potions and men contemplating fish (which is my favorite photo, by the way). Beautiful stuff.
[Via TrendLand]
Courtesy of Sabine Pigalle and Louise Alexander Gallery
I find such power in hand iconography. These photos of strong red nails really bring out the wannabe bad ass in me — the part that aches to ride a hog, be in a band and draw on a Cindy Crawford mole. What does it all mean? I that it reflects my unresolved wish to go as a Robert Palmer girl for Halloween. Anyone want to join me in a gelled, bra-less gang with guitars? We can all wear red lipstick!
