kate moss’ new line for topshop is reaching frankly upsetting levels of perfection, part 1

noorannmatties:

Selections from ‘Rituals’, by Noorann Matties

Forced to examine ourselves in ways many normally avoid, Rituals as a project sought to capture the moment in which we our lives become devoid of distraction and we become intimately aware of ourselves. By photographing people’s personal beauty rituals I attempted to capture this awareness, this intimacy that occurs only when one is forced to examine their own body, the most basic thing that is theirs, and build upon it.

view the complete series at http://inconnumag.com/rituals/

(via soyonscruels)

lostinurbanism:

James Baldwin

East Dulwich, London, England

(via dillyboys)

Late in the year, the New York chapter of the National Organization for Women (NOW) instigates a letter and phone call appeal demanding that he stop referring to women as ‘little girls’ in his music. A spokeswoman in Springsteen’s office defends his use of ‘little girl’, calling it a ‘rock and roll term.’ She is quoted in Rolling Stone magazing as saying that no calls or letters had been received, except from NOW members wishing to dissociate themselves from the project.

-

Jim Cullen, Born in the USA:  Bruce Springsteen and the American Tradition, via Emma Forrest’s Cherries in the Snow.

i mean - i mean - when a novel uses this as an epigraph, it’s guaranteed to be perfect, you know what i’m saying?

wolverxne:

Baby Tiger Cub and butterfly | by: [Floridapfe]

(via plasmatics-life)

[haim - if i could change your mind]

If I could change your mind
I would hit the ground running
It took time to realize

And I never saw it coming
Forgive my lying eyes
Gonna give you all or nothing

youngblackandvegan:

queen nicki

(via thekrakensdaughter)

If you free it with too violent an action, if you blow apart the strata without taking precautions, then instead of drawing the plane you will be killed, plunged into a black hole, or even dragged toward catastrophe. Staying stratified—organized, signified, subjected— is not the worst that can happen; the worst that can happen is if you throw the strata into demented or suicidal collapse, which brings them back down on us heavier than ever. This is how it should be done: Lodge yourself on a stratum, experiment with the opportunities it offers, find an advantageous place on it, find potential movements of deterritorialization, possible lines of flight, experience them, produce flow conjunctions here and there, try out continuums of intensities segment by segment, have a small plot of new land at all times.

- gilles deleuze & felix guattari, a thousand plateaus (capitalism & schizophrenia part 2)

[laura marling - born to love (live session)]

collections that are raw as fuck ➝ valentino s/s 2014

(via wolfhalls)

Everything was decoration in that happy city. Luxury became us. In Venice we were mesmerised by our own entrancing vision in the mirror: the mirrors of the water and the speckled mirrors in our sumptuous bedrooms. In Venice, every boat wore at the point of its prow a lacy little spume of foam. As the world closed in upon us, we used our depleted stocks of gunpowder not to arm ourselves but for fireworks! Fortunately, we were so beautiful that we frightened our enemies; they did not think themselves good enough to conquer us. When you hear that it was necessary to forbid the Venetian laundry women to wear velvet, satin and black fox fur, you start to understand what kind of city we were then.

Ah, we were a happy city! Venice had become so old that she had fallen into her second childhood and laughed at everything. We were voluble as parrots. Our hands conducted simultaneous conversations, eloquent as a pair of poets. With a flourish, we welcomed in all the self-styled counts and virgins, the fortune-tellers and the snake-oil salesmen. The very men who swept the streets sent the dust dancing in graceful arcs, tendering their brooms like slender ballerinas. We even made joy of acqua alta! We pirouetted over the passerelle  with the water clucking underneath us like an old governess. We splashed and giggled even as the sea dragged our chairs and our underwear into the lagoon.

The sea took all our memories and our sins away. She bestowed upon us her strange mother-of-pearl light which changed every instant and gave us a taste for lightness and infinite variety in all things. She revived us with her fresh breath upon our cheeks after we had spent ourselves in our debauches. She was always behind us or ahead of us, winking at us, showing us the futility of caution or even planning. For us, the sea was a liquid stimulant like coffee or hot chocolate. And she was everywhere. You could not close your bed curtains against her moist, lascivious sighs. You could not stop up your ears against her saucy whispers. 

We had Carnevale six months of the year. In our strange and beautiful masks we always had a choice of who to be. In our masks, we were accountable to no one, and we took full advantage of this. In those days Venice kept eight hundred and fifty mask-makers in business. For our masks were not merely for Carnevale. They were for the fairy tale of the everyday, to be worn every night.

- Michelle Lovric, Carnevale

alexachung:

Alexa Chung out and about in Soho on 10 February 2014 in New York City.

millionsmillions:

The good folks at Dorothy labored over a tremendous “Book Map” depicting the settings of some 600 literary works based in London. The books, poems, and essays selected for the map run the gamut from T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” to J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series.

!!!   !!!!!!!!!!!   cartography   london   lit   lovelovelove   

Years and years ago, there was a production of The Tempest, out of doors, at an Oxford college on a lawn, which was the stage, and the lawn went back towards the lake in the grounds of the college, and the play began in natural light. But as it developed, and as it became time for Ariel to say his farewell to the world of The Tempest, the evening had started to close in and there was some artificial lighting coming on. And as Ariel uttered his last speech, he turned and he ran across the grass, and he got to the edge of the lake and he just kept running across the top of the water — the producer having thoughtfully provided a kind of walkway an inch beneath the water. And you could see and you could hear the plish, plash as he ran away from you across the top of the lake, until the gloom enveloped him and he disappeared from your view.

And as he did so, from the further shore, a firework rocket was ignited, and it went whoosh into the air, and high up there it burst into lots of sparks, and all the sparks went out, and he had gone.

When you look up the stage directions, it says, ‘Exit Ariel.’


- Tom Stoppard, University of Pennsylvania, 1996  

(via undeadprophets)

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