Fashion does it Better

Her looks will never fail. Whose? Both. Kind of a quirky question, it's the atmosphere that counts, über alles. The lil' thing giving you goosebumps when you care or dare to take a glimpse at the glossy pages, between cheese and pear. Lonely afternoon turns into full fiesta and flowers grow up from nowhere, life is as rottenly beautiful as it is strange. By the way, it may be the first time we drop a note on Irina Shayk and a first knows no last. This also goes for Steffy Argelich, and goes even further (thinking of some... [Lire la suite]

She's like a firecracker waiting for a matchstick, ready to ignite all night, captivating like no other yet completely blasé. The beauty who doesn't give a shit to her gorgeous features. Fashion is ruthless with pretty ladies but Damaris Goddrie is in a class of her own, not another good-looking classical shampoo-girl. Effortlessly raunchy from head to toe, with that random hairdo of hers, pouting like a grumpy baby, the carefree goddess turns us totally timber when she stands in front of Oliver Hadlee Pearch's camera, put in... [Lire la suite]

Wahre Liebe – a german translation of true love. The pun wasn't hard to find, but don't take our title for a playfully meaningless bunch of letters that sound well together because the magazine is called LOVE. Actually, it wasn't LOVE at first sight and we went through scepticism and fearful nights before getting used to the aesthetics of Katie Grand's thick and glossy baby. Getting used? Not exactly. Unlike several other publications, those that struggle to survive and those resting on their laurels, LOVE shows enough guts to... [Lire la suite]

Childlike empresses rule no more their ivory towers, but the view on top floor is too bright for lifeless dolls. Every monster goes back to its closet, some day or the other, and the first one passing by locks the door and throws away the key. Then people use to call every plain-jane a chameleon, with half a pound of make up on the face the trick may work. Every disaster comes to its end, but the cycle goes on its way, and all the ice-queens for a day may return to the fridge. The same applies to boney babies, doe-eyed damsels... [Lire la suite]

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,... [Lire la suite]

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. ... [Lire la suite]

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... [Lire la suite]

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... [Lire la suite]

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... [Lire la suite]

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... [Lire la suite]