The grass looked greener on the other side, the twin river. Another island we're afraid of, another name we can't whisper, another couple letters we're not able to stutter. And we'll keep on babbling, and we'll keep on swinging, singing the songs that cross our minds, our roasted brains keep on liking what they bring to us, daily, endlessly. The wheel may turn, we may be out of tune, out of path, out of project. Who, who's the only who that gets all the love and gifts for himself, or herself, or itself, to indulge with, to dive deep, and say the green water of the ocean tastes as good as a plate of sushis? Who is real and who keeps on whipping under masks, as pretty as can be, we're just uneducated toys who get the story behind the stories. We love fireworks, and we dig. And the Earth gets deeper as we dig. Dig out, dig up. And the Earth looks brighter than all Moons. And we would be mad dogs to ignore Edie Campbell and Mica Arganaraz by Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin for Vogue Paris.
What makes a tortured brain walk in the morning rain, and when the buses come, roar and roam, we'd rather sat here and stay home alone. Tatoo frenzy gotta attract the eye of the gonzo paparazzo, starting on level zero and looking for the clouds above ready to whine again. People in line, waiting for a slice of pigeon pie, mourning their long gone dreams while bicycles cry on their way to work. Poems, everybody! And caviar on the ground, wings on bricks and red frog skulls. Slang on the sly, slovenliness, delightful pains as puns, and our list would go on and on till it caresses the yellow skies. Cat McNeil doesn't know what rubbish means or tastes like, and delivers some raunchy marvels again, into the bargain, for Zoo Magazine photographed by Bryan Adams.
Moving in circles or twists, you'd rather groom your gloom and forget about french fries and driving licenses. Plenty of girls, looking for fun at bargain price, running towards wooden walls and falling like spoiled lemons off their tree. One against storms and bolts shaking a reality that gets more and more bizarre at every step made away from the main road. Another walking her sadness on the grassy hills that never recovered from urban scars. And Valerija Kelava (here photographed by Benjamin Lennox for L'Express Styles), icon of the alternative path, far from the spotlights that burn skins and brains, close to incandescent genius when it comes to visual streams traveling straight from paper to the eye. You may be an etrurian goddess or an angel walking on wet pavements looking for something to fulfil a tired empty stomach, you always get a geniune chance to turn geniunely mad, for the hopeless best. Spinning, spinning...
Easy youth, sleazy death
It's the first time, ever, we put some male model taste on this page and, hopelessly, the last. We've been begging for some changes at Vogue Italia, but real ones, revolutions, not click and turn, the page(s). And here we go, on another kind of world, another plunder of what fashion photography used to be, one day above another. Steven, forgive us, that's no time to cut our throats and let blood make rivers out of fleshy veins. How can our eyes survive such a visual robbery, where has innovation gone to, give us the destination, it might be cloudy enough to suit our scary tastes. Mr Mert, Mr Marcus, send us tickets and we'll all be happy, corrupted and smelling nice.
I'd nibble at you every day, I'd nibble at you every night, I'd send my jaw to another hell. I wanna chew you, feel your tenderness till you get dry and hard, and out of tooth. For now, we lack teeth more than you, more than your smile, bloody spectacular half-smile. You're the loveliest onomatopea and we are your faithful ears. You mend scars and you put a veil on the money we don't have, and never will. We ate lion meat and are still as hungry as the river next door. We couldn't trace back the magazine it was taken from, and, in the purest honnesty we're able of, we do not care that much if the pictures are great, only the name of the imagemaker will miss. The world needs loves, and gloves and your gazes to turn, and we need your glance to dance, Guinevere, not to stop. Keep shining dark, mistress.
Get your digit delight elsewhere, lighthouses!
A crop of sweets fallen from a plastic tree, a bunch of eyes tuned for the best and worst, a world that melts waiting for the night to go by. Years leak and years drop, idiots drool and lights fly by like dirty eagles between the clouds. Where does the sky lives? Where do angels land? If anyone knows the exact address, we'll order a taxi with tomato sauce and garlic powder, we'll drive straight. Isis, name of a goddess (Bataglia for the curious crowd), forgotten fixture of another empire, and back again with the features you can admire above. The fearless lady has built her own (living and loving legend), has designed her way, thank you cheekbones and thank you eyes that can't skip the lights and delights. We and our minorities lick the screen, waiting for more, waiting for a girl like you to stop the flow of insanities flooding our tears and brains. We all need a muse in disguise to turn our lives into ventures, we all should leave a place free in our subutexed brains for a breeze coming from unknown horizons.
Fried eggs despise classless fools
We should be catchers in a rye, should be a lot more things, should embody a tad more characters, we shall live and float like grilled penguins on hot water, roar like mischievous tigers when another voice yells louder than ours. But we're quiet as nuns under the sunshower, stuck between red bricks and flawless freedom, enjoying the last kisses of a dying summer stuttering its last words in a light blue whisper. The wind is friendly, the leaves are happy and our silly planet keeps its pace to make us dumber than yesterday. Imaan (CODE Management, pictures by Zoe Ghertner for i-D's site) hits and runs, hits our eyes and runs, flies her way, makes every impossible somehow possible. Every tomorrow bears the scars of today, every next year carries the weight of its older sisters. But nothing can prevent some newness from eating the cream of the scene, from biting the rope others had planned to use, from throwing lights, and painting bright the darkest corridor. May the tramway cry and our teary eyes go far, beauty reigns by a mile.
Jump and bump and geese gotta run, if the ocean grows higher we all gonna sink, yeah. For the moment, let us keep our Stan Smith on the solid ground and listen to the music that tunes our eyes. Fashion flows on big rivers, too big for what they shiver, for. Let the song get strong, before it all gets wrong. Season, seasoning, reasons are duty-free, get your gift, get your poison, get it all before everything disappears away. Damaris Goddrie, a cat on the rooftop, swinging between the chimneys, swirling, whirling, waving a flag that hasn't felt the wind before. Even when all seems to fly down, some little ladys keep taking the route up. She's got a cover, she's got Vogues, she's got Dazed but doesn't look Confused, she's with Ulla, and Viva, and DNA.
We thought you were born on the other side of the river but you kissed the ground first on the other side of the earth. Megalo-babe, you look like a truck on a highway, you shine so bright we've got scars in the eyes. Something's going on from your gaze, from this mouth you can't keep closed. We'd love to know the pretty sound that comes out of lips like yours, we're always eager to know more when it comes to a pretty lady with unusual features. You look too good to ask your height and hips. We might be mad dogs but you rock our chains. Thank you for the visual moment, Leela Goldkuhl. At Next Model Management.
Fashion is fab world, where a Dior dress can tell you that you look classier nude and crude, like a worm on a plate. The less you wear, the more you bear. Almost as magical as an angel who lost his (her?) wings. Who knows the gender of the angels, anyway. Not us, we do not have the presumptuousness to say what is male or female. We just open our eyes, as wide as beer allows us to. Here goes Shaughnessy Brown, the name alone would have been worth an article, captured in various fantasies by another lady, Brianna Capozzi, for a couple sheets of paper called Interview, german version. Love Germany, love its cheap shops, its nightlife, the imagination they have and we've almost lost. And Dieter Bohlen, of course.
Pears taste so far, far away. Glitzy stones won't replace the fruity smell of flesh fallen from a lovely tree but we can try, we can stand the ache in our bodies, our bones, our chests, and indulge our eyes instead of grabbing the last syringe alive. Familiar names to warm up our always colder hears: Lindsey Wixson, the fishy goddess from Kansas, the golden witch from Wichita and Sophia Neophitou who could turn a stray dog into a fashion icon. The rain is hitting hard as we drop these lines, the sun moved away and the wind waves a hand at you. Despair leaks from everywhere, but smells deliciously real and that's what's count. 10 Magazine seems back from its doom and brings us goosebumps again, that's a thing to note, these days, when all is grey, when flirting with disaster has become the easiest way to go. Donna Trope scored this, scoped it well. Good lenses will never let us down, let"s have some soup and enjoy what remains.
My Lady Zeroin
Sailing on a sea of wine, on the back of a dead pigeon we believed to be a white swan, then we landed on another Switzerland that wasn't swiss for a penny. And Katie Grand backstabbed us again, all we were bleeding was words and drunken delights. Anna Cleveland, leopard prints, nipples and craze from hair to painted toes, painted with pain and pride. Hens and trashcans, total paradise, lost in heavy heaven, somewhere up south. Life under legal substances like pricy food and cheap alcohol makes miracles when your eyes get to lick some Jürgen Teller photographs, then get some visual scars that make you enjoy life more than bitter sex. When you can't watch the greatest ass on earth any longer, waving at you like a double moon caught dancing with the wind, every fix of whatever liquor becomes a good one. Thank you from the bottom of our rotten hearts, guys from LOVE.
We took another slice, slept away, took another slice, another train, arrived on lemon grass, in a godforsaken station wishing we were in Paris, to suck all the glitz and glam of a part of the world, but no. High on the sidewalk, high on whatever powder, whatever hay, whatever liquid, we seriously didn't know and never will. Plastic bags are the sexiest thing on earth and we'll never know the taste of it, if you caress it, you may rest in peace, with chance. We are megakult, we drive too fast, we passed the lights, red or green, we are violence, skizz, and everything else you might guess out of it. We are living like onions without a single dick, free onions in a world of chives. Here goes Miss Pivovarova, on white wallpaper, like a distorted angel caught in a porn movie scene. God may bless Pop and wine. And us, if he, or she, still have the balls, or ovaries, to do that.
Eating mice while the boat is sinking
What about rats, more protein, too much protein, makes a big maybe but maybe sounds as lovely as tomorrow morning, if you have the good idea to keep the window blind. The boat is sinking for sure, captain went for lunch, the Kaiser is watching a bunch of sailors dance, with a kinky eye. Everybody is pissing in his violin, these days, everybody is puking in the ocean and it fueled our lust to throw smokey flowers at Katie Grant's piece of shit, well, of glossy paper, glossies are such a shitty ordeal for the eyes nowadays but some pearls survive among the mountains of trash. Back from hell, or almost, we are. We don't promise you LOVE (megazine) or a daily dose of grasshoppers wearing bikinis as second skin, we don't swear there will be breathtaking news all the way but, perhaps, a bit of sweet words from time to time. Was hard to believe it is Carolyn Murphy above, easier to guess it was David Sims who held the camera. Fashion, like almost everything else, has turned into a kind of kingdom of boredom, lately, a vast waste of paper, a mass murder of trees yet between the corpses the angels are swinging hard. In black outfits no one would wear, and pink backgrounds are so neat. Hit us, hit us, baby, we don't lie. And we're alive, at least, at last.
It's like one week to countdown, one week left and goodbye. Well, who knows where it goes and where we will land and after all, uncertain times have their own charms. So, before to say a final thank you to all the ones who took their time to listen to our rhyme, a last piece to add to a section that has been a historical part of FDIB's story: the readhead posts. Back to our beginnings, our first steps in fashion, to Lily Cole's heyday. Back to these quirky times when Stam was walking down the runway with bold copper hair (you might have forgotten but it used to be like that). Back to the innocent moments we had almost no knowledge and let our eyes be captured by flame-red locks, far from any fame-fed hoax. But if the topic suddenly fuels old memories, this last piece dedicated to gingers has nothing of a blast from the past. Kiera is new and has nothing else to do with our old inspirations than the bright shade of her bangs.
No need to write Kiera @ Select as we used to write all the time, it's written on the polaroid sheet and we must say the London-based agency has put a lot of attention to relentlessly re-invent that good old concept year after year. Today it's black with bold yellow writing, a touch of fun when it literally screams "Kiera!" at the bottom of the page while still avoiding any visual confusion keeping it classic (with a playful side). It's pop but it rocks, a bit the same way as Kiera herself (on Select's Verve board). Something definitely classical about the 5'10 tall young lady, something gently crazy about her looks, fierce hair but soft features. As it's our last one of that kind we can put it this way: feed the fire and keep the flame growing higher.
Gonna be busy writing the very last posts now. You can have hesitating beginnings but you can't tiptoe on your way out.