Looking through the eyes, the eyes of LOVE (Magazine, of course): a portrait of Anna Cleveland as the mistress of an oneiric (even more than dreamlike, actually) place out of space, out of time and eras. Perhaps the most accomplished and unforgettable piece of fashion art of the last few months if not more. The entire story, photographed by a Tim Walker always true to his aesthetics yet never short of imagination to renew his own style, follows the same path and appears to be a loud statement, a catchy reminder of what beauty, genuine beauty is and should always remain. Miles away from the sum of godawful criterias that sometimes describe a face or body by an almost mathematical manner, every page of the editorial claims the exact opposite: beauty grows like wild flowers do, as it comes, how it wants, in every possible direction and knows no master, no rule, no standard. And let alone the eye of the beholder. Beauty tosses you, turns you, returns you, teases you, squeezes you and, at the most unexpected moment, hits you back another time.
The complete list of all the talented artists featured in this story edited by Katie Grand is too long and too strong to be displayed here, so we just can invite you to rush to the nearest store selling LOVE to discover these names, just like Melanie Gaydos, Yana Dobrolyubova or Anne Lise Maulin along with Grace Bol and Cierra Skye (plus a double dose of Guinevere van Seenus to indulge with).
I'm fooling myself on a late evening, dreaming awake of countryside from the heights of my suburban ninth floor, because the grass seems greener surrounding a tiny village than in the small park down the road. I guess the same happens everytime I take a trip away, where cows sing at night during summer months and birds and fearless foxes say hello to break the silence of the dawn. Then come dreams of city lights, pavements, neverending rumbling. What you see and hear is what you get and you wish you got the opposite instead.
Fashion has always been related to urban ways of life, of various kind, and has always seemend fantasizing about an idyllic rural imagery, about flowers in bloom and freedom. Industrial farming has rarely been a part of fashion photography, regardless if the editorial targets a realistic, almost documentary, point of view or tries to build a romantic vision out of raw modernity as it often does with urban landscapes and trends. The story from Vogue Nippon, with its quirky scenes right in between daydream and daily routine, offers less common images of fashion pictures meeting countryside. Portrayed by Michal Pudelka are (our darling) Kadri Vahersalu, Clara Overgaard and Lærke Simone.
They all say, they all say, they say nothing, and let the same story go its very own way. They talk, smile, eat and say hello, then goodbye. Gimme gum, gimme gum, gimme another life of bum, if you may want. You don't. I smoke cigars in the waiting room, I smoke my soul when the doctor comes to tell me I'm almost dead. I'm just almost. Not dead. I still eat, I eat hardcore dreams. I still drink, water and wine. My heart sucks.
Here is Sasha, no need to say Pivovarova (and Anja Rubik who is nicer in a restaurant in Paris than in an editorial) for Vogue China (in her, in your eyes) captured by... ehm, I forgot. Sorry baby, sorry baby.
Block me, Bust me
Once upon a time, lived a man who wanted to get out of his life, get rid of it, get out of his and this world(s) and knit his own cloud to look from above at the latest news from earth like a scientist looks at a procession of ants and a poet looks at his ten toes. Now, that very same guy would say: freak me out, take me out. If he's craving for an extra dose of late tenderness or for a full shoot of fireballs, I own no clue about it. But he feels some twisted kind of hunger, the kind that squeezes you from stomach to heart to lungs to trachea to brain. The lonesome cowboy is getting tired of riding hangover horses. That man with red eyes needs a kick, no matter where and how, he begs for a shock. A lovely shock.
If I had such a lovely shock earlier, looking at an editorial out of a mainstream mag like Vogue UK before, I'd feel better with what my eyes think today. But, let's say, it's never too late to get thrilled, one way or a bloody other, and this collaboration between Damaris Goddrie and Tyrone Lebon has enough guts to wake up any sleepy retina.
Lust for Aspirin
Halfway between imagination and distorted reality, carrying my burden of sleepless nights in my right pocket, I saw electric butterflies dancing in the air. Or dancing in my mind, burning an eye or two while unknown beasts I could only guess were waking up at dusk. The hunt has begun, and, with it, the sudden urge to run and lose myself before losing grip. Random clothes we seldom get to wear, zero sock around, wet dead leaves playing on the ground – the night of all the invisible noises was here, above the heads and beneath the feet.
It's been too long all I see daily gets blurred and blurred, it's been a while I hadn't let my eyes land on photographs that are so much in tune with (my own) feelings and memories. It's heavily (or heavenly) nice to see Peter Lindbergh (and Freja by the same way) can reinvent themselves, true to their own while throwing surprises right in our faces. And Vogue Italia can enjoy the pride of publishing this.
Cash me in (VP Twice)
I'm losing my right eye, a decade after my left ear, I'm becoming a mosaic, parted from hair to chin. Till when, and then, till the very moment I'm just the half of what people consider as human. I'm a survivor, somehow, a stomach that can say no to food and a brain unable to refuse a glass (of wine, of whisky, of cheap beer). I'm an angel flying, seeing hell from above and afraid to fly lower. And we're only survivors (say it again, and shout) between empty bottles and cans.
We're an exception wrapped in a plastic bag, we're trash fed with asphalt and corrupted rain, we're a wall and our bricks fall, out and down, one after the other. It's a ballet, a ballad, sweet as cotton-candy. No noise and no voice, almost. And our dreams go back to velvet couches, our ideals went to sleep, some mothers say bye to their child and want to be our hero. They'll be the hero of their dog(s).
No model today, and no milk tomorrow. By the way I was too foul to write down (or up) all the photographers' names who did the work. Here is Vanessa, Paradis, with more or less clothes, for Vogue Paris, latest issue. Buy it, enjoy.
Milkless Blah-Blah and Some Honey all my Way
I went to the supermarket and my favorite cashier wasn't there. No smile, tonight. Where was my little blonde? In another world, I do hope so. I sing, with my naked heart, I give my lungs out, I survive somehow. Without my cashier, loveless as usual. And I still sing. I drop words as if I were alone. Wait, I am, on my own, talking to myself, yelling at myself, swimming in a river of cheap beer, surviving thank to a couple ciggies. I shall eat, perhaps a pill or two, tomorrow gotta be a good son again. So, benzo, benzo, benzo, gonzo. Gotta deal with the bus, gotta rule that ride, spread my smile, fake or not, like butter on bread, getting coconuts. I don't call love love but still want some arms around my poor self, still look for a tad tenderness, I'm such a mellow heart craving for sweet, sweet stuff and salty sex. Gosh, I'm just as cruel as my soul.
Not much to do with my loneliness and my lovelessness, except that Tim (Walker) may feel alone in current Vogue Italia too, as it's a whole issue dedicated to his work. With Anna Cleveland, another cranky ray of light of mine.
Two Beers and more than a Half
Two beers and a half, that's what it takes to get the bubbles back, and to follow the inspiration going through, to be in tune with the moon. They say I'm just like a friend of mine, may they spoil their tongue and drool some dirt, together, and a half. I can't buy your damned dreams, I'm fated to try, only try, but I do like fire when it burns. There is no joker, no cocaine around, just happy water that makes lovely brains. Where's my coat, where's my skin, where is my underwear as I have to begin, with something earthly while I put a worm in my only ear. I don't want some second-hand tear, I'm fleeing away from wet ways. Jumping myself, fooling myself, I'm a mushroom and a widow. And you're a symphony. Of love, of course.
On the half of a planet I live (on, twice), you too, we live, a girl called Valerija Kelava met a camera, and the man behind the camera used to be called Benjamin Lennox. It's for Numéro, that means number for french ears. You've got mine.
And that sun went down, while I was in between, up and down, I'm russian mountains. Between feathers and fears, laughters and tears. Got no money in my pocket to bucket, got no heart in my chest to swing my blood. Don't have much, though I worship the bits I have, wanna see the end of my own movie. Even the days I wanna drown, dreaming of seas of beer, even these days, I feel there might exist a gentle tomorrow. Not much belief, zero trust, but out of curiosity I resist. It's a kind of a bad joke my shoes still walk on wet ground, it aint't funny at all but steps are walken. Do I do what I do, do I dream of what my dreams are made of, do I really live this life, who knows, not me. Am I myself or just the guy holding the mirror in front of me. Narcissistic, all this way.
All the path, and the pavement makes my day. But while shadows took me as their boyfriend, here lands an angel called Amilna Estevao, caught flying (by) by Txema Yeste for Numéro, flight styled by Elizabeth Sulcer.
It's a story 'bout war(t)(s), blood(s), guts, fur and furs, and disco songs. It takes place in a small pub in a small town in a small-towned world. It's as disgusting as Grandma's dinner. Plenty of gall, a full dose of venom poured over it but we are still legends. When other (castrated, oh-my-omega) wolves are howling in front of their glass of beer, we stand up, we stand out from that one-man crowd, careless and free like the wind in summertime. We hate bikes, we play dykes, we are. We love songs, we're a love song, éternelle ritournelle. But the bitter voice of those who misunderstand their own life, shouts. We outshout. Hell, and heaven, yeah!
If Zoo number forty-nine doesn't propel us straight to cloud nine, we'll be happy to lay on cloud eight. Angela Lindvall by Bryan Adams is enough to keep quiet our megalomaniac eyes on that red morning.
I've got your perfume in my nostrils and it doesn't want to leave. Got it in my soul, it made me hypnotized. Had your leather glove in my hand, and your taste doesn't want to let me go. You – and I know there is thousands of so-called 'you' written or dropped on this page – offered me such memories, that I have a hard time to get rid of myself. With a little light, I made the decision to survive, some more weeks that could turn into years. We'll decide as all our alls go by. We'll see how heat turns itself on and what options left we have to fight against that cold, that cold around. Let me skydive and fall into the sweet trap of the warm abysses of your eyes.
Not as perfect as my twisted reality but relentlessly ideal (and idealistic) on glossy paper is Anja Rubik, right here by Harley Weir in Be my Baby for Vogue Paris Dizzember 2015. Feels properly good to drop (by) another positive note on Vogue Paris these days. Feels properly good, and obviously well.
Leave me as there's no tomorrow, live me 'cause there's no tomorrow, hang me on your neck, wear me on your wrist. Nothing will happen, anyway, as nothing is our everyday, nobody exists, nobody exits, nobody knows the void as I do. Hundreds of times, I tried to let go, to escape forever but I wasn't able to imagine what could and would be my way out. Tunnels are too dark, and seas too deep, tubs are too nice to drown myself, when champagne flows. We love glamour much more than clamour, we love glitz, we drink till the morning dews drip, on our skins, on our hair and make us tipsy, again. Then we tiptoe in wet grass, look at the river, walk and whistle. I like fast, and unconnected, I like all that won't last. I like these winds, only passing by. Let us go to Liverpool, go back or reach unknown shores for the very first time. Let us flirt with the idea, let us not cry anymore. Tears are overpriced, and there is only sixty eternities within the same hour.
One of our undying loves we wish to see more often: Dovile Virsilaite, here for Citizen K.