Dirty Girl Things
Sunday, April 27, 2008
One-Hundred-Eighty-Five
Lost Souls
Following our last conversation about sharing sexual flash moments...
I’m sure you wonder as well as I do...
How come that so beautiful girls...
Deliver themselves to completely debauchery sexual lives...
There must be something else than just an easy way of life...
More than carnal need, they must be first...
Lost souls...
* * * * *
( from Sharing Sexual Flash Moments )
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
One-Hundred-Eighty-Four
Please don’t say you’re sorry...
It was love at first sight!...
In a glance, I took proper notice of your wonderful body lines...
I felt adrenalin all over my body...
And becoming hard on, just imagining you and me...
In a sexual flash moment...
I got your positive feedback and soon we were talking...
And touching...
Sooner or later we would make love...
Just a matter of time...
That intimate moments came few days later...
After a wonderful evening...
Where you were the star and I was the lucky guy...
Please don’t say you’re sorry...
* * * * *
( from Sharing Sexual Flash Moments )
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Thursday, March 06, 2008
One-Hundred-Seventy-Nine
All you need is love…
Our life experience is like a chest of drawers…
Each drawer a personal achievement objective…
Having some full up doesn’t make you up on those who are empty…
You feel incomplete with those drawers empty…
You look for what you need the most…
Most of the people in the net use the sex drawer but not love’s one…
All you need is love…
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( from Sharing Sexual Flash Moments )
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Sunday, March 02, 2008
One-Hundred-Seventy-Eight
My jet set girl…
I never thought…
That a so sophisticated and fine girl like you…
Would fuck so damn good…
So much better than many depraved girls I met in my sexual past experiences…
I’ll keep you in my mind…
My jet set girl…
* * * * *
( from Sharing Sexual Flash Moments )
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Monday, January 21, 2008
Number One-Hundred-Sixty-Seven
Exceptional Artists
from Coffee, Cake & Kink
The only kinky cafe gallery in the UK
John Chilton
Smoking Room
Chained Reaction
Passion n Pain
Stiletto
Tender Touch
* * * * *
Elsie McKeegan
* * * * *
Georgie Tier
Black on White
* * * * *
Ray Leaning
Eve Four
* * * * *
Matthew Slade
Blue
The Whip
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Number One-Hundred-Sixty-Two
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Number One-Hundred-Sixty-One
Guy Bourdin
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Number One-Hundred-Sixty
Gerhard Richter
Zwei Liebespaare / Two Couples
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Number One-Hundred-Fifty-Nine
* * * * *
Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Friday, December 07, 2007
Number One-Hundred-Fifty-Five
Lee Miller: Shooting star
From ‘Vogue’ cover girl to war photographer, from Surrealist muse to alcoholic lady of the manor, Lee Miller’s life certainly didn’t lack colour. Ahead of a new exhibition of her work John Banville (London Telegraph, August 2007) salutes one very talented, passionate and troubled woman
If Lee Miller had not existed, Ernest Hemingway would have had to invent her.
Tough, ambitious, hard-drinking and hard-swearing, and good-looking enough to have been a Vogue cover girl, Miller not only captured, in her most celebrated photographs, the horror and euphoria of D-Day and its aftermath, but was herself a part of the action, sharing in the terrors, the excitement and the ‘delirium of the brave’, in Yeats’s phrase, as the Allied armies swept eastwards into the heart of what for Hitler and his forces had been Fortress Europe.
When war broke out Miller was living in London with her husband, the painter Roland Penrose, who was a friend of Picasso and later his biographer.
Their Hampstead home was a treasure-house of works by contemporary masters - her lifelong friend Picasso, of course, and Braque, and Max Ernst and René Magritte, and Miró and de Chirico and Brancusi.
Their guest-lists, as the photographer David Scherman wrote, ‘read like a Who’s Who of modern art, journalism, British politics, music and even espionage’.
By that time Miller - or Lady Penrose, as she had become - had turned herself into a cordon bleu cook, was a keen gardener and a hostess of genius; she was also an alcoholic and, according to her only child, Antony Penrose, a dysfunctional mother.
It was a long way from Poughkeepsie, in New York State, where Elizabeth, ‘Liz’, then ‘Li-Li’ and finally just ‘Lee’ Miller was born in 1907.
The most momentous and certainly the most scarring experience of her childhood years was the rape she suffered when she was seven.
The rapist, described as ‘a family friend’, also infected her with gonorrhoea, the treatment for which in those days was extremely invasive and painful. Her brother John said of the rape that, ‘It changed her whole life and attitude - she went wild.’
In later years she liked to claim she had been thrown out of every fancy school in the state of New York.
She also had what would surely seem to us nowadays a dubious relationship with her father, Theodore, an engineer and, according to Miller, ‘a very advanced amateur photographer’.
Is it fanciful to detect evidence of post-rape confusion in the androgynous appearance she presents in a photograph Theodore took of her on the family farm outside Poughkeepsie when she was 15?
Also among her father’s portfolio were a number of nude studies of Miller as a child and as a handsome young woman.
What Miller’s mother thought of these sessions between father and daughter is not recorded. However, Freudianism was still in its infancy then, and perhaps it is just a case of autres temps, autres moeurs.
While still a teenager Miller went to Paris and fell in with the so-called Lost Generation chronicled by Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.
Her hometown she used to refer to dismissively as ‘Pokey’ or ‘Pok’, but, ‘One look at Paris,’ she said in 1969, ‘and I said, “This is mine - this is my home.“‘
Back in New York and still on fire after her European experiences, she studied acting and theatre lighting, was a chorus girl for a bit, modelled underwear and tried her hand as a painter.
Luck played a large part in Miller’s life - she had the true photographer’s gift of being in the right place at the right time - but never so markedly as one day in New York in 1926 when, by her own account, she was about to step off the pavement into the path of an oncoming car when she was pulled back in the nick of time by a bystander who turned out to be Condé Nast, the founder and publisher of Vogue.
As Mark Haworth-Booth writes in his new book, The Art of Lee Miller, Nast ‘recognised in Lee the look of the moment’. The issue of March 1927 was her first appearance on the cover of Vogue, in an illustration by the highly fashionable Georges Lepape, who managed both to soften and to accentuate Miller’s somewhat coarse, even brutal beauty.
For Vogue she was also shot by leading photographers such as Edward Steichen and Hoyningen-Huené.
In 1929 she returned to Paris, where she studied, and lived, with the surrealist photographer Man Ray and, among other adventures, appeared in Jean Cocteau’s film The Blood of a Poet (1930).
The douceur de la vie of the French years she captured in 1937, when she famously photographed a latter-day Déjeuner sur l’herbe with her friends the Eluards and Man Ray and Ady Fidelin, and a distinctly phlegmatic-seeming Roland Penrose.
Lee Miller was a natural surrealist, and remained so all her life, if with a lower-case ‘s’.
As Mark Haworth-Booth points out, all her photographs have a surrealist slant. One of the reasons her wartime pictures are so striking is that the prolonged state of emergency provided her with countless ready-made surreal images - see, for instance, her picture of two women in fire masks, a scene that might have been arranged by her friend Salvador Dalí.
Writing of her at once witty and sinister study of four rats perched on a wooden bar, Haworth-Booth points out how ‘Lee delighted in detaching rectangles of reality from the contexts that ordinarily determine their meaning,’ as good a description as any of the surrealist project in general.
In her 1930 picture of an ‘exploding hand’, taken in front of the Guerlain parfumerie in Paris (the ‘exploding’ effect is due to the scratching of the glass of the door by countless diamond rings), she achieved, according to Haworth-Booth, ‘that “convulsive beauty” identified by André Breton as the hallmark of Surrealist art’.
By 1932 Miller was in New York again, where she married a rich Arab businessman, Aziz Eloui Bey, and moved with him to Egypt.
It was in Egypt, among the magnificent wreckage of an ancient civilisation, that she took some of her most poetically charged photographs.
Portrait of Space is surely her masterpiece, an exquisite and ambiguous ‘representation of her psychological state’, as Haworth-Booth observes, which seems both to offer the possibility of escape and flight and to portray the aridity of a failing marriage. This photograph was the inspiration for Magritte’s 1938 painting Le baiser.
After three years of boredom in Cairo and Alexandria, Miller took off for Paris, where, through the painter Max Ernst, she met Roland Penrose, and sailed with him for England on 1 September 1939, the day Hitler’s armies invaded Poland.
In London she combined work as a Vogue photographer with the compilation of a photographic history of the Blitz.
When D-Day came, on 6 June 1944, she wangled an accreditation as a war correspondent - again for Vogue - with the invading American forces, and set off to cover the workings of an army hospital behind Omaha Beach in Normandy.
Her report, ‘Unarmed Warriors’, ran in the August 1944 issue of Vogue. It showed her to be not only a fine war photographer but also a natural writer; her article is as straightforward and vividly immediate as her accompanying photographs.
In subsequent months she followed the invading armies across Europe, from the frenzied joy of a newly liberated Paris, through the horrors of the camps at Buchenwald and Dachau, to Munich, where David Scherman famously photographed her bathing in Hitler’s bath, and on to the Führer’s mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden, which had been set alight by retreating SS troops.
It is hard not to think that those months after D-Day must have been the high point of her life. Many of those who took part in that exhilarating venture found it difficult to return to the drabness of civilian life in a Europe exhausted by war.
She continued her work in photography, particularly as a portraitist - one might again echo Yeats and say of Miller that her glory was she had such friends - yet her glory days as an artist were over.
After the war the Penroses bought a farm in Sussex, and Miller settled down as best she could to being the wife of a country squire, though on one occasion Lady Penrose was heard to mutter, ‘F- weekends in the country!’.
However, if one is to credit her photographs of her guests, life at Farley Farm must have been sweet. She loved to cook, and, as Haworth-Booth writes, her ‘new life in cuisine can… be seen as part of the imaginative renewal of the domestic arts after a period in which their practice had been necessarily reduced’.
Even here, she showed herself still the unregenerate surrealist, serving up such delights as cauliflower ‘breasts’ in pink sauce.
Although she produced many haunting images, as a photographer Lee Miller was not up there with the greatest ones such as Cartier-Bresson or Robert Capa - though Haworth-Booth’s beautifully written and illustrated book, published in conjunction with the exhibition ‘The Art of Lee Miller’ at the V&A, does make a case for her as a genius of a kind.
She was probably a chronicler before she was an artist, and her first interest was the human spectacle, in all its beauty and horror, its glamour and its tawdriness.
She got the best out of her time, and recorded much of it for our after-time. As Hemingway might have said of her - and perhaps did - she was some woman.
‘The Art of Lee Miller’ is at the V&A, London SW7 (advance tickets 0870 906 3883), from 15 September to 6 January
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The look of the moment
Gifted, beautiful and unpredictable, Lee Miller’s career took her from the fashion pages of Vogue to the front line of the second world war. But while she is celebrated as one of the finest photographers of the 20th century, her great talents as a writer are often forgotten, argues Ali Smith (London Guardian, September 2007)
In occupied Vienna in 1946, Lee Miller photographed an emaciated child dying in a hospital bed. The photograph is both merciless and despairing. The child’s bones are clear in a too-tight, too-loose skin. The white folds of the sheets round the child are too rich. Their softness contrasts with the bed’s iron frame, which suggests prison bars. The child’s look, straight into the camera, is unanswerable. One hand holds the sheet, the other is open.
Miller was one of the first correspondents into the liberated concentration camps. In a fury at the bureaucracy that routinely meant no hospital drugs were available (except to the military), she cabled Audrey Withers, her editor at Vogue, with her Vienna dispatch.
For an hour I watched a baby die. He was dark blue when I first saw him. He was the dark dusty blue of these waltz-filled Vienna nights, the same colour as the striped garb of the Dachau skeletons, the same imaginary blue as Strauss’s Danube. I’d thought all babies looked alike, but that was healthy babies; there are many faces for the dying. This wasn’t a two months baby, he was a skinny gladiator. He gasped and fought and struggled for life, and a doctor and a nun and I just stood there and watched ... There was nothing to do but watch him die. Baring his sharp toothless gums he clenched his fists against the attack of death. This tiny baby fought for his only possession, life, as if it might be worth something.
Miller’s report is a steely, eloquent piece of work in which she watches with awed wryness as the city of art and music ("the music which first cheers then haunts and finally irritates one to a frenzy of abuse") surreally reconstructs itself in its own ruins. The full dispatch hasn’t yet been published in its entirety. This is just another astonishing anomaly in the story of Lee Miller’s life and afterlife, or lives and afterlives, as her son, the writer and film-maker Antony Penrose, coined it in The Lives of Lee Miller in 1985. The latest book about Miller, The Art of Lee Miller by Mark Haworth-Booth, written to coincide with her centenary retrospective which opens at the V&A this month, is by far the fullest and most satisfying consideration yet of Miller’s art and Miller as artist. Beautifully illustrated, with many images that haven’t been widely available before, it is a work of proper appraisal, particularly good on areas of her work that have, until now, pretty much escaped critical attention, such as the series of frames she took in Egypt between 1934 and 1937.
But then Miller as artist is something we nearly didn’t get the chance to consider at all. This is partly because, in her later years, she disparaged her own art, acted like it didn’t exist, tidied what survived into the loft in Farley Farm, Sussex, the art-filled home she shared with her husband (and clearly her soul mate), the surrealist artist and collector Roland Penrose. That she was one of the finest photographic artists of the 20th century was just one of the discoveries her son made when he opened up some boxes in the attic and found original prints, negatives in their thousands, and several official-censor-shredded manuscripts.
We’re only now, a hundred years after her birth and 30 after her death, coming to terms with Miller’s many lives and gifts, and the one that’s been most overshadowed by her photographic talent is that she was also a writer of great grace and force. Her rare later writing about art, about artists, about her long friendship with Picasso and about many other aspects of her life, is always witty and striking. Her war writing is stunning. Her skill was honed under intense pressure, on the hoof, in the war dispatches published by Vogue between 1944 and 1946. It was as she moved through liberated Europe and reported back to the magazine, for which she’d previously been a photographer - and whose editors, astonished at what she was sending, published her visceral text alongside her equally visceral photography - that she became a figure in whose combined eye and voice notions of politics, fashion, liberation and eyewitness met and made history. Her writing, like her photography, is about a lot more than the acts of witnessing and recording truth. It’s about the act of composition, about the composition of all things, and about what truth actually is.
How to see Lee Miller? Much of her life would be a negotiation between the act of seeing and the act of being seen. She was born Elizabeth Miller in Poughkeepsie, New York, in 1907. Her father, Theodore, was a keen amateur photographer who took pictures of engines, bridges, and more and more incessantly of his own daughter, usually nude studies, all through her childhood and well into her young adulthood when he also persuaded friends of Lee’s to join the (sometimes rather disturbing) nude tableaux.
Theodore was fascinated by stereoscopic photography, where the same image, doubled, viewed beside itself, creates the illusion of three-dimensionality. It’s heartening to look at his double image of the nude Lee Miller at 21 and to see how the possibility of different selves must have fed positively into the young Miller’s notions of the seen self.
She was raped by a “family friend” when she was seven and contracted gonorrhoea, the treatment for which was so painful that her brothers had to be sent two blocks away from the house so as not to hear her screaming. She grew up clever, energetic and so anarchic that every school expelled her (one particularly memorable prank was the surreptitious feeding of blue dye to a schoolmate who nearly fainted at the colour of her urine). She longed to be like Anita Loos, the girl scriptwriter on DW Griffith’s film sets. Her young energy is re-conjured in one of her most vibrant later pieces of writing, “What They See in Cinema”, published by Vogue in 1956:
The first theatrical performance I ever attended was in the Poughkeepsie Opera House. It seems highly unlikely, but is memorable and true that the ‘Bill’ consisted of Sarah Bernhardt in person, playing the ‘greatest passages from her greatest roles’, from a chaise longue; secondly, artistic, immobile nudes, imitating Greek sculpture (livid, in quivering limelight); and as a curtain-raiser there was a guaranteed, authentic ‘Motion Picture’. The Divine Sarah dying on a divan was of considerable morbid interest to me . . . Though I understood no French, her Portia, pleading, seemed urgent enough (she was propped up vertical for that); the nudes were just more ART. But the ‘Motion Picture’ was a thrill-packed reel of a spark-shedding locomotive dashing through tunnels and over trestles . . . The hero was the intrepid cameraman himself who wore his cap backwards, and was paid ‘danger-money’. On a curve across a chasm, the head of the train glared at its own tail ... the speed was dizzy, nothing whatever stayed still and I pulled eight dollars worth of fringe from the rail of our loge, in my whooping, joyful frenzy.
Never mind boring old nudes (look at the glorious, throwaway “livid, in quivering limelight” or the line of “Divine . . . dying . . . divan” - Miller loves assonance and alliteration and the slightly louche effect they have on rhythm). Never mind “just more ART”. Miller saw herself as in love with life, with the dangerous way it moved, with the real thing. If you could capture that, you’d be heroic.
A visit to Paris, where she shook off her aged chaperones (and instead rented a room in what turned out to be a maison de passe and much enjoyed watching the comings and goings of the clients), gave her a love of the city’s style and freedom. Back in the States, she was discovered - the legend goes - by Condé Nast when Nast himself hauled her back to safety after she stepped off a sidewalk into oncoming traffic one day. (She was so in shock that she babbled in French.) Nast took one look at her and signed her up as a model on American Vogue.
But she returned to France as soon as she could, in 1929, with an introductory letter for the surrealist artist and photographer Man Ray given to her by the photographer Edward Steichen, for whom she’d modelled; the model had decided to become the photographer and knew exactly which teacher she wanted. She tracked Man Ray down in a Paris bar. “I told him boldly that I was his new student. He said he didn’t take students, and anyway he was leaving Paris for his holiday. I said, I know, I’m going with you - and I did.”
She helplessly stood for the new age. She was “the look of the moment”, as art critic Richard Calvocoressi says of her modelling for Vogue in the 1920s. Then she was “the universal muse of the surrealists”, as Angela Carter wrote (and it’s interesting that even as late as 1990 a cultural writer as fine as Carter was still unaware of Miller the artist). Her very beauty was blinding, perhaps; certainly it became the focus for some extraordinarily modern face-offs. In America a portrait of her by Steichen had, by chance, become the first ever picture of a real-life woman on a sanitary towel advert, which caused a mini-scandal. In Paris, with eyes painted on top of her eyelids, she played the beautiful armless statue in Cocteau’s 1931 surrealist cult classic film, Blood of a Poet. Her breasts were used by one French glass company for modelling the shape of its champagne glasses.
But the embodiment spoke back. The muse had her own muses. The face of modernity had a camera eye, and as soon as she got the chance, she was composing her own self-portraits, Lee Miller par Lee Miller. The woman who modelled Chanel and Patou began doing her own fashion shoots of other women in their clothes in her own studio for Frogue (French Vogue). The woman whose breasts were models for champagne glasses went to take some medical photographs and borrowed an amputated breast from the lab, then photographed it beautifully and bloodily on a dinner plate with a fork beside it, her composition a cuttingly close-to-the-bone comment on the meat market of which she was herself a part. The woman who was a shockingly good surrealist photographer shocked her daring male surrealist friends with her far-too-open attitudes to sexuality. Free love was for the boys; even the surrealists found it too surreal in a girl.
If her aesthetic independence unsettled her teacher/lover Man Ray, her sexual independence drove him nearly insane with jealousy. He took to threatening suicide, walking round Paris carrying a revolver and wearing a noose, then made his famous sculpture Object to be Destroyed - a metronome whose ticking pendulum tip is, revealingly, a photograph of one of Miller’s eyes. Meanwhile, she hightailed it back to the States and opened her own portrait studio in New York (doing all the electric wiring herself), where she photographed perfume bottles and movie stars with the same stylish clarity with which she’d re-seen contemporary Paris as surreality. In both her commercial and her portrait work, she put to good use the experimental technique of solarisation, which she and Man Ray had accidentally discovered and perfected.
Haworth-Booth calls solarisation “a perfect surrealist medium in which positive and negative occur simultaneously”. There couldn’t have been a better dark-light conceit for Miller’s own life circumstances. By 1940 she was in England, refusing to go back to safety in the States, instead winging it at Brogue (British Vogue), managing fashion shoots of pretty girls in utilitarian clothes on grimy realist streets (when shoots outside the studio were still quite a novelty). At the same time, she was compiling her own shots of bombed London, like Remington Silent, whose title is a witty play on the brand name of the mangled typewriter, its casing broken, keys splayed, loose ribbon staining the classically carved broken masonry or gravestone on which it sits. Four years after she took this picture, her friend and lover, the Life photographer Dave Scherman, photographed her room, Room 412 in Hotel Scribe, the Paris hotel where the allied press corps holed up (using the facilities that the retreating German press corps had just abandoned). An astute portrait of Miller, whose instinct about when and where to position the subject is central to all her art, it features her Hermes Baby portable typewriter next to the whisky on the table in a shaft of sunlight, lit up in the chaos, and presided over by the composed presence/absence of Miller, visible only in reflection.
A year earlier, she had been in England taking portraits of the war correspondent Martha Gellhorn (whom American Vogue was featuring because she was Ernest Hemingway’s new wife). A year later, Miller’s own dispatches would be making the work of contemporaries such as Hemingway and Gellhorn seem a touch sentimental. Here she is in 1946, on the execution of Lázló Bardossy, the fascist ex-prime minister of Hungary:
Then, accompanied by a priest and some gendarmes and a noise of the silent crowd shifting, a cocky little man jaunted in from a dark archway. He wore the same plus-fours tweed suit, ankle-high shoes with white socks turned over the edges as when he’d been arrested. He held his beaky grey face high and his gestures were taut. He listened to the words of the judge and as he walked in front of the sandbags he waved his hand refusing the blindfold. The four gendarmes who had volunteered for the execution stood in line awaiting the order to fire. They were less than two yards from him. Bardossy’s voice orated in a high pitched rasp, “God save Hungary from all these bandits.” I think he started to say something else but a ragged tattoo of shots drowned it. The impact threw him back against the sandbags and he pitched to his left in a pirouette, falling on the ground with his ankles neatly crossed.
At the end of the second world war she was the only woman photojournalist to advance with the allies across Europe, “the only photographer for miles around and I now owned a private war”. She was one of the first people to take a photo of napalm in action, in St Malo in 1944. Not that she knew it was napalm; her photos were confiscated by the censors immediately she filed them. “It is almost impossible today ... to conceive how difficult it was for a woman correspondent to get beyond a rear-echelon military position, in other words, to the front, where the action was,” Scherman wrote. The troops toned down their strong language for her, not knowing that she was toning down her own, for them.
The light and the dark. She was one of the first photojournalists into liberated Paris (and the first allied soldier to turn up at her friend Picasso’s flat). Then, crossing into Germany, she was one of the first allied photojournalists to enter Buchenwald and Dachau. Astonishingly, she washed the visit to Dachau off in Hitler’s own bathroom in his requisitioned flat in Munich, and, with the other GIs, was combing through his and Eva Braun’s belongings at almost exactly the time the pair were committing suicide. Scherman’s photograph of Miller in Hitler’s bath, her filthy great army boots on the floor and her elegant arm mirroring that of the statuette placed next to her, is their dually sardonic and triumphant take on composition itself.
The affectionate story goes that Miller got herself accredited as US army war correspondent because she so envied her American friends in London their smart Savile Row uniforms and their easy access to Scotch and Kleenex. The truth is she’d been badgering Audrey Withers for some time to let her write text for her pictures. So Withers assigned her a short descriptive piece about the US broadcaster Ed Murrow. Miller found it excruciatingly hard. “After all, I’ve spent 15 or so years of my life learning how to take a picture - you know, that thing that is worth ten thousand words, and here I am cutting my own throat and imitating these people, writers who I’ve been pretending are démodé.” But Withers liked the piece very much.
With her accreditation, in 1944, she flew into France to cover a quiet enough story about some nurses in an allied evacuation hospital and - “I grabbed a pocketful of bulbs and film, and clambered into a command car” - somehow managed to smuggle herself to a field hospital close to the front. Her first lengthy dispatch, “Unarmed Warriors”, was a formally deft piece about the re-evaluation of a familiar landscape. “It was France ... it was no longer France.” From the liberation of Paris she reported on the first fashion shows and the shaved heads of the girl collaborators, interviewed and photographed the great French writer Colette, covered the arrival of Fred Astaire and Marlene Dietrich and the press conference Maurice Chevalier held to clear himself of anti-patriotism. When a Vogue editor complained that neither the models nor the clothes in the fashion shots she’d sent were “elegant” enough, she snapped back: “These snap shots have been taken under the most difficult and depressing conditions ... Edna should be told that maybe there is a war on.” The shots are real-surreal masterpieces, with their smiling, starvation-thin models next to bullet-riddled shop and cafe windows. “The bullet holes in the windows were like jewels, the barbed wire in the boulevards a new decoration.”
Writing never came easily to Miller, who would fortify herself with cognac then batter at her Baby Hermes late into the deadline. “Every word I write is as difficult as ‘tears wrung from stone’. I lose my friends and my complexion in my devotion to the rites of flagellating a typewriter,” she told Withers in a typically funny and despairing cable. Scherman compared “being present during Lee’s creative process to feeding his brain slowly through a meat grinder”.
But what a writer. What an eye, what an ear. “A company was filing out of St Malo, ready to go into action, grenades hanging on their lapels like Cartier clips.” Arriving in Strasbourg, “it didn’t feel like an abandoned, evacuated city, but as if people were breathing somewhere behind walls.” In Germany, “leaning back on the sofa” in her father’s office, the Burgomeister of Leipzig’s daughter, who had committed suicide, has “extraordinarily pretty teeth, waxen and dusty”. An opera singer, photographed singing an aria from Madame Butterfly in the ruins of Vienna Opera House, is “perched on a plank across a drop ... her dress was safety-pinned to fit her hungry thinness”. Miller’s voice is always characterised by a combination of frank immediacy and surreal double-take. Her sense of edit must have come from years of knowing exactly how to retouch photos, where to cut, where to shade, where to lighten.
Great writers have never been strangers to the pages of Vogue (a quick scan of 20th-century writers for Brogue, for instance, turns up Virginia Woolf, Edith Sitwell, Jean Rhys, Iris Murdoch, Stevie Smith, Angela Carter). All the same, it takes a leap of the imagination now to re-inhabit the world in which even an advanced fashion monthly could house a voice like Miller’s, who might write, from liberated Paris: “The entire gait of the French woman has changed with her footwear. Instead of the bouncing buttocks and mincing steps of ‘pre-war’, there is a hot-foot long stride, picking up the whole foot at once.” Or, from St Malo under gunfire: “I sheltered in a Kraut dugout, squatting under the ramparts. My heel ground into a dead detached hand ... I picked up the hand and hurled it across the street and ran back the way I’d come.”
It’s not just in her photography that Miller asks you to look again. Her voice is as sharp as her eye. It bouleverses a reader’s expectations, turns form and cliché inside out, punctures preconception. Her redefinition over several written pieces, for instance, of not just the concept but the very word “liberation” as she encounters it from situation to situation, becomes a profound attack on all empty, nostalgic or politically manipulative rhetoric. She tore up a Nazi flag and made herself a red scarf. She “liberated” a pair of pinking shears and cut herself (and the boys) blue scarves out of parachute silk. She took this word “liberation” to task, from the joyous, perfume-smelling streets of Paris to liberated Luxembourg where freedom is “the cinema for no purpose; it’s the group in the street, laughing; it’s trusting your friends and your family; or a newcomer because he has an honest face”. But “the word was bound to degenerate. Now we ‘liberate’ a church when we wreck it, we ‘liberate’ a bottle of brandy when we beat down a mercenary publican, we ‘liberate’ a girl when we detach her from her chaperone ... ‘I got liberated last night,’ means I went on a particularly super drunk.” The word degenerates until she compares the Germans she meets, who believe they’ve been “liberated” from a foolish involvement in a rather badly managed pyramid scheme instead of having been party to a brutal regime, with a dark-eyed couple she photographs who’ve just been freed from the Gestapo jail in Cologne.
What she saw as the German people’s denial of knowledge and responsibility left her with a prescient sense that belief itself would be a war casualty. Her writing as she came through Germany (with nothing except her Rolleiflex lens between her and what she saw) became surgically cool, scathing, ironic; presumably this composure was also her protection. She was always a salty, street-smart, quick-witted writer; there’s a deep love of puns and a Blitz-influenced Open-As-Usual humour in what she writes, the humour of anger, a survivor’s lightness. It let her coin phrases such as “Gestapo Rotary Club”, let her comment bitingly about Eva Braun’s flat, its style “strictly department store, like everything else in the Nazi regime: impersonal and in good, average, slightly artistic taste”. But her irony congealed into a cold and righteous fury when she reached Buchenwald, where she watched a dead SS man thrown on top of a pile of cadavers looking “shockingly big, the well-fed bastard”, and Dachau, where the work-horse stables “full of fat-bottomed beasts” were terrible to the eye “after so many emaciated humans”. The bestial shock allowed her some of her most powerful, terrible, cold-eyed work. How do you compose Buchenwald?
My fine Baedecker tour of Germany included many such places as Buchenwald which were not mentioned in my 1913 edition, and if there is a later one I doubt if they were mentioned there either, because no one in Germany has ever heard of a concentration camp, and I guess they didn’t want any tourist business either. Visitors took one-way tickets only ... The tourists invited by General Patton fainted all over the place, although some remained arrogant. Even after the place was 95% cleaned up, soldiers who are used to battle casualties lying in ditches for weeks are sick and miserable at what they see here.
How do you compose Dachau? “I don’t usually take pictures of horrors,” she cabled Withers. “But don’t think that every town and every area isn’t rich with them. I hope Vogue will feel that it can publish these pictures.” Withers published her cable as well as her dispatch. American Vogue titled the photo spreads and the breathtaking text that accompanied them “BELIEVE IT”.
“There’s something inside a human being that no one has thought of putting into a machine.” Not being a machine, and having used up a spirit quota that would have kept 20 people happy for 20 lifetimes, Miller unwillingly returned to England after the war, profoundly disillusioned by its aftermath, and sank herself into the kind of silence that means that every book written about her is thick with detail till roughly 1950. The last three decades of her life always take up a disproportionately slim page-width.
A dismay at the mundane fashion jobs Vogue offered her, a dislike of being stuck in the country, an enervation and a descent into alcoholism commensurate with what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder, plus a total fear of the typewriter when she sat down to write and a great unhappiness at not being able to write any more, meant that such pieces as “Working Guests”, her last text and photo spread for Vogue in 1953, are a rarity.
Its photos are of distinguished friends from the art world visiting Farley Farm. Even Miller’s photo captions are gloriously subversive. “Max Ernst plants borders - one entire bed of Indian corn is all his own unaided work. Dorothea Tanning (Mrs Max Ernst), painter, operates as master electrician. Alfred Barr, art critic and director of New York’s Museum of Modern Art, feeds the pigs. Katherina Wolpe (Mrs William Turnbull), promising young pianist, paints greenhouse.” Maybe she always wanted art to make things work, to be something other than “just more ART”.
The text is a typical upending of form. “There are columns of print by experts advising guests and hostesses how to behave toward each other with tolerance ... I’ve devoted four years of research and practice to getting all my friends to do all the work.” Its tone is pseudo-clinical, cold-war totalitarian spiced with a cheeky, spiky violence. “Just in case there is something in the primitive idea of acquiring the qualities of the enemy by eating him, I refuse to have nettles or local snails on our table d’hôte, but we are going to try the curled young shoots of bracken (called fiddle-heads in New England), and without qualm we devour the inimical pigeons, squirrels and rabbits the gun-toters bring here.”
It was her last lengthy piece of writing. Not that her creativity went away; it passed, instead, straight into the next passionate incarnation, Lee Miller as gourmet cook, insatiable recipe collector, winner of prizes, famous for gorgeous, naturally surrealist, visually unsettling dishes such as her “Pink Cauliflower Breasts”.
It is as if, all her life, the 20th century in its brightest light and foulest dark threw itself at her feet or pursued her, snapping at her heels. Antony Penrose writes about the innate surreality in just flicking through an edition of Vogue from the war years, where “the grim skeletal corpses of Buchenwald are separated by a few thicknesses of paper from delightful recipes to be prepared by beautiful women dressed in sumptuous gowns”. From one end to the other, the spirit of Lee Miller looked the surreal century in the eye and answered back.
One of the finest pieces of writing she left us, published in Vogue in 1945, is about the visit to Colette, herself a symbol of changing times and freedoms, whose own writing voice was always all cool but passionate. The spirit of versatility meets its younger/older incarnation in the piece.
The parade of 50 extraordinary years was given to me like flashbacks or cinema trailers. Colette as Colette. Colette, the siren, the gamine, the lady of fashion, the diplomat’s wife, the mother, the author ... Colette on top of the Chrysler Building in the St Tropez barefoot sandals which tickled the jaded shutters of New York’s cheesecake ship photographers 10 years ago.
Colette, who knew the cost and liberation of transformation, is tucked up in bed on the telephone. Seeing Miller in her army uniform, it amuses her “that I should have been transformed from Cocteau’s statue in The Blood of a Poet to a poilu”. She and Miller look at photographs together, of cats, of dogs, of Colette, portrait shots by Man Ray, some by Miller herself, who enjoys watching Colette and Maurice Goudeket, her much younger husband, affectionately squabbling. “Her elfin face was 50 years younger while she was haranguing.” She records the survivalist persistence in Colette which meant that Goudeket, who was Jewish, survived the war years too. Then Colette “had me write” with her array of pens and pencils. “Hard points for digging, soft, easy ones for first drafts and letters, an old, wise one she trusted when she was completely stuck.” When Miller leaves, Colette gives her a souvenir to take away, a piece of paper “with embossed lace edges and coloured cut-outs like an old fashioned valentine ... the holiday paper of her girlhood”.
A thin piece of paper. A gift passing between two of the century’s kindred spirits. The great writer, Miller tells us, “suffers the same anguish for every paragraph now, after 50 years of experience, as she did on those first four books”. Miller wonders at the writing’s grace, its “easy intimacy” that comes at no cost to its “mechanical accuracy”. “Each of her perfectly poised words ... has survived total warfare.”
It stands as a very good description of Lee Miller’s own art.
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Number One-Hundred-Forty-Four
Sappho’s Exhortation to Learning
from Scott Horton’s blog, “No Comment”, on Harpers Magazine site (November 10, 2007)
Sappho, oil painting by Charles-Auguste Mengin (1877)
A handsome man guards his image a while;
a good man will one day take on beauty.
–Sappho (Σαπφω), The Exhortation to Learning (ca. 590 BCE)(W. Barnstone, transl.)
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Number One-Hundred-Forty-Two
Flowers!
from Biertijd
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Number One-Hundred-Forty-One
Julian Opie
A few selections from the Bijou Collection
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Number One-Hundred-Two
Succès de scandale!
The good old naughty days
by Fiona MacCarthy, The Guardian
In life Tamara de Lempicka was a Left Bank bisexual with an appetite for bohemian living. Her work, though, portrays the dubious glamour and discipline of fascism
If there is a single image that encapsulates art deco, it is Tamara de Lempicka’s self-portrait Tamara in the Green Bugatti. It was commissioned for the cover of the German magazine Die Dame, which defined her as “a symbol of women’s liberation”. The tight, post-cubist composition of the painting; the muted, sophisticated colour; the sense of speed and glamour; her blonde curl edging out of the head-hugging Hermès helmet; her long leather driving gauntlets; her lubricious red lips. Clearly this is a woman who means business - even to the extent of mowing down a few pedestrians.
Her time was the 1920s: a period of transition, an era in which functionalism merged with fantasy and formal social structures lurched into the frenetic. In essence, De Lempicka was a classicist, having admired Renaissance painting since her adolescent travels in Italy. But she astutely combined traditional portraiture with advertising techniques, photographic lighting, vistas of the tower architecture of great cities.
Her milieu was the glittery and scintillating Paris of the years between the wars, a place of high style and lascivious behaviour. With a callous authenticity, De Lempicka depicted the shifting morals of a Paris where nothing was precisely what it seemed. She lived and worked on the bisexual fringes of a society where there were no rules beyond the demands of style and entertainment. She was the great go-getter, a believer in exploiting one’s resources to the ultimate. Her iconic green Bugatti wasn’t green in reality but yellow. Nor was it even a Bugatti but a Renault. “There are no miracles,” she stated with her icy realism. “There is only what you make.”
Who was she? De Lempicka shuffled the facts of her biography much as she meddled with her birth date. Tamara Gurnick-Gorzka was born in Moscow - or could it have been Warsaw? - in 1898 or so, to a wealthy Polish mother and a cosmopolitan Russian father. Her background of social confidence and ease was to prove an advantage to a portraitist: she confronted her sitters on equal terms. In St Petersberg, she met Tadeusz Lempicki, a tall, saturnine attorney of noble family and, at the age of 14, announced her love for him. They were married just before the Russian revolution. Lempicki was arrested by the Bolsheviks but his wife secured his release.
Like other exiled White Russians, they arrived in Paris with no money, having abandoned their possessions. They now had a child, Kizette. Tadeusz Lempicki remained unemployed and moody. Tamara’s portrait of her husband shows the queasy self-importance of the glamour boy displaced. These were years of deprivation, in which Tamara herself became determined to succeed as a professional artist. “My goal,” she later wrote, “was never to copy, to create a new style, bright, luminous colours and to scent out elegance in my models.” She became a prime interpreter of modernity.
De Lempicka’s painting is a thing of gloss and gesture. In her early days in Paris, she enrolled at the Académie de la Grande Chaumière and absorbed the work of the old masters, especially admiring Bronzino. In some ways, De Lempicka is a mannerist reborn. She went on to study in the studio of the symbolist Maurice Denis, a highly decorative painter who instilled the sense of discipline and structure in her work.
Her most influential mentor was the painter and critic André Lhote, perpetrator of a less strident, gentler-coloured form of cubism, a style easily acceptable to the bourgeoisie. In her early Paris paintings, De Lempicka employed this “synthetic cubist” method, an accumulation of small geometric planes used to startlingly voluptuous effect in images of women reclining, women bathing, women embracing, laconically stroking one another’s thighs. The blatant display of the naked female body was a feature of art deco - this was, after all, the era of Josephine Baker shaking her banana skins. De Lempicka’s pair of pointing-breasted giantesses, The Friends, disport themselves in front of a futuristic stage set of skyscrapers, a 1920s fantasy of big city sex.
But her images of female nudity also recalled the French neo-classical tradition. Her group painting Women Bathing is the Left Bank lesbian version of Ingres’s luscious harem composition The Turkish Bath. The critics’ divination of “perverse Ingrism” in De Lempicka’s paintings did her burgeoning popularity no harm. In real life, she acted up to it, displaying her own tall, slender, curvy body outstretched on a divan, wearing a titillating white satin robe with marabou feather adornments. Tamara played her own art deco goddess of desire.
She was a workaholic, permitting interruptions in her nine-hour painting sessions only for such necessities as champagne, a massage and a bath. She sold herself shrewdly and by 1923 was beginning to exhibit in small galleries in Paris. The next year, her work was shown at the Salon des Femmes Artistes Modernes in Paris, and in 1925 she had her first solo exhibition in Milan.
Her social life advanced in parallel, displaying the full force of Tamara’s “killer instinct” (her daughter’s description). There was something predatory in the way she acquired so many lovers of both sexes, many of whom were also her models and her patrons. The model for her painting Beautiful Rafaela was picked up in the street and seduced with aplomb. The portrait throbs with an intense erotic energy. The liaison continued for a year.
Tamara gave up on Tadeusz and, brandishing diamond bracelets from wrist to shoulder, joined the European avant-garde celebrities: Marinetti, Jean Cocteau, Gabriel d’Annunzio. She visited d’Annunzio at his notorious villa Il Vittoriale in Gardone where, unusually, she resisted his advances and, equally unusually, failed to paint his portrait - a singular loss to the De Lempicka oeuvre. She was a spectacular attender of Natalie Barney’s afternoons “for women only” and claimed to have snorted cocaine with André Gide.
Thanks to her contacts in the world of the Paris couturiers, De Lempicka always looked fabulous. Photographed in the right light, she could be Greta Garbo’s sister. She made her entrance at smart parties in magnificent garments donated by Coco Chanel and Elsa Schiaparelli.
In the late 1920s, De Lempicka acquired her most important patrons, Doctor Pierre Boucard and his wife. Boucard was a medical scientist, inventor of Lacteol, a cure for indigestion. He had become an avid modernist and already owned several De Lempicka nudes, including her most flamboyant lesbian painting, Myrto, Two Women on a Couch. He now offered her a two-year contract to paint portraits of himself, his wife and daughter, also asking for an option on any other paintings she produced.
This sudden financial stability allowed her to buy a three-storey house and studio on Rue Mechain on the Left Bank. She commissioned its refurbishment by Robert Mallet-Stevens, the most brilliant French modernist designer of the time. With its svelte grey interior, chrome fittings and American cocktail bar it gave De Lempicka the setting of ultimate urban smartness to which she had long aspired.
A contemporary architectural photograph shows the new studio in all its pristine glory. There in the centre on its easel is the portrait of Madame Boucard, completed in 1931, a sophisticated and accomplished painting that tells us as much about De Lempicka as it does about the sitter. De Lempicka is the connoisseur of textiles, jewels, hairstyles, the cut of the garment, the swathe of the mink stole: no other painter of the period gives us so precise a reading of its material values. Madame Boucard is posed like a Renaissance courtesan, her right nipple erect beneath the oyster satin bodice. She’s a figure of power, with something of the brutal allure of Wallis Simpson. What she tells us is that every sex act has its price.
Size mattered in the Europe of that time. De Lempicka’s male portraits show gigantic caddishness. Spiv-shouldered Doctor Boucard, with his test tube and his microscope, looks more the slick sharp man about town than man of healing. Count Fürstenberg Herdringen is a glass-eyed monster in a Frenchman’s navy beret. Most frightening of all is the colossal portrait of the Grand Duke Gabriel Constantinovich, with his gold-braided uniform and empty, sneering face.
De Lempicka was an artist of the Fascist superworld: her portraits were allied to the “call to order” movement, the return to monumental realism in European art. Her art exudes the dark and dubious glamour of authoritarian discipline. When she paints the Duchesse de la Salle, the Duchess is in jackboots, one hand thrust in her pocket in an attitude of menace. It is a tremendous portrait, painted with the sheer theatrical enjoyment, the unerring sense of decor, of De Lempicka’s best work.
In 1933 she remarried. Baron Raoul Kuffner was the owner of vast estates donated to his family of stockbreeders and brewers by Emperor Franz-Josef for supplying the Hapsburg court. De Lempicka had already portrayed her future husband as a dandy desperado, gazing out inscrutably from behind hooded lids. She had also painted - and in doing so disposed of - his previous mistress, the Andalusian dancer Nana de Herrera, selecting her as model for the most overtly decadent of the “damned women” in the notorious Group of Four Nudes .
De Lempicka was never a consistent painter. As with many ruthless people, her swagger could give way to a strain of awful mawkishness: cubism and kitsch. Once she became Baroness Kuffner, Tamara lost direction. The urge for fame, and indeed subsistence, left her. The age of art deco, in which she thrived, was over. Her sentimental studies of old men with guitars and lachrymose mother superiors are a dreadful anti-climax after the bitchy candour of her portrait of lesbian nightclub owner Suzy Solidor.
The political terrors of Europe in the 1930s were impinging: she and the baron, on holiday in Austria, were appalled to have their breakfast on the hotel verandah interrupted by a singing parade of Hitler Youth. In 1939, urged by Tamara, who was partly Jewish, Kuffner sold his estates in Hungary and they moved to the US. In New York, she tried abstract expressionism unsuccessfully, and was reduced to the role of a chic curiosity, “the painting baroness”.
De Lempicka died in 1980 in Mexico, having directed that her ashes be scattered over the crater of volcanic Mount Popocatepetl. The woman who in her lifetime was described as “a little hot potato” came to a suitably inflammatory end. Her expensively dressed rogues gallery of portraits, though hardly great art, add up to a unique and alarming social document, recording the seductive surface textures of a European society en route to self-destruct.
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Friday, August 31, 2007
Number Ninety-Six
Lars Ihring. Master Photographer.
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Monday, August 20, 2007
Number Eighty-Eight
Louise Dahl-Wolfe
I believe that the camera is a medium of light, that one actually paints with light. In using the spotlights with reflecting lights, I could control the quality of the forms revealed to build a composition. Photography, to my mind, is not a fine art. It is splendid for recording a period of time, but it has definite limitations, and the photographer certainly hasn’t the freedom of the painter. One can work with taste and emotion and create an exciting arrangement of significant form, a meaningful photograph, but a painter has the advantage of putting something in the picture that isn’t there or taking something out that is there. I think this makes painting a more creative medium. — Louise Dahl-Wolfe, 1984
Louise Dahl-Wolfe was one of the most celebrated photographers of the 30s, 40s, and 50s. Her work had enormous impact on great photographers such as Horst, Avedon, and Penn. Working in the heyday of Harper’s Bazaar, she pioneered the use of natural lighting in fashion photography and shooting on location and out of doors.
As a staff photographer for Harper’s Bazaar from 1936 through 1958, Louise Dahl-Wolfe introduced a witty, relaxed, and natural aspect to fashion photography and, in the process, helped “define the post-war look of American women.”
She preferred portraiture to fashion photography and was a pioneer in the technique of color photography. She made memorable portrait photographs of leading figures from politics and the arts including Mae West, Cecil Beaton, Eudora Welty, W.H. Auden, Christopher Isherwood, Orson Welles, Carson McCullers, Edward Hopper, Colette and Josephine Baker.
Tom Neff created a superb documentary Louise Dahl-Wolfe: Painting with Light highlighting Dahl-Wolfe’s career, which can be seen on The Documentary Channel.
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“California Desert” & “Colette”
“Dappled Nude” & “Isamu Noguchi”
“Japanese Bath” & “Mary Jane Russell in Dior Swan Hat”
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Number Seventy
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“Images without tension are purely decorative or formal” ---Andrzej Klimowski
A few words about Klimowski? Impossible. You can’t capture an imagination such as his in a sentence or two. He is a free man and you’ll never catch him. He looks at things head-on but at the same time inside out and upside down, round the corner and through a shattered keyhole. His eye is a microscope, a magnifying glass, a two-way mirror and a crystal ball. He leads the field by a very long furlong, out on his own making his own weather. He is Klimowski, unafraid. ---Harold Pinter
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Number Sixty-Four
H O R S T
“Tulip With Anthurium” and “Odalisque III”
“Lisa with Harp” and “Eucharis Grandiflora”
“Aednum Holochrrysum” and “Mainbocher Corset”
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Number Sixty-Three
John Carroll Doyle
“Satin Gloves” and “French Curve”
“Afterglow” and “Passion”
“Sushi” and “Palm Shadows”
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Number Fifty-Six
Coffee, Cake & Kink. A stylish, upbeat space where you can enjoy your three most favorite things in life - coffee, cake and kink!
London’s first kinky café gallery now, with cake and coffee and kinky things to buy. Where? In Covent Garden, no less, so it is easy to get to and a perfect meeting point for all.
The place serves exactly what is says - coffee, cake and kink and is equally serious about all. Run by gentle and friendly fetish-minded types, Coffee, Cake & Kink in Covent Garden mixes regular art shows, erotic jewellery and monthly church services with a BDSM-friendly vicar in the basement. And - as the whipped cream amid the whips - Coffee, Cake & Kink serves up Mormouth Coffee (fairly traded, freshly roasted, ground while you wait) and some spankingly good home-made cakes. No censorship on the kink front, either - take your pick from Heavy Rubber, Eric Stanton, cuffs, cards or pretty pics. More sauce than Starbucks, that’s for sure.
Some of CCK’s exhibits include:
Matthew Slade (“The Whip”) & John Chilton (“Passion & Pain”)
Ray Leaning (“Sacrament”) & Julie Cook (from her book ‘Baby Oil and Ice: Striptease in East London’)
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Address:
Coffee, Cake and Kink
61 Endell Street
Covent Garden
London WC2H 9AJ
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Sincerely.
Eve and JW3 and Mélisande
Dirty Girl Things ©
Unrepentant. Unpretentious. Unconventional. ©