Schiaparelli

Elsa Schiaparelli's Skeleton Dress was the first piece of hers I'd seen that caught my eye enough for me to say her name three times so as I would remember it and this was well before I cared enough about fashion to care enough to remember who'd made what, and that dress is good. Pre- or Ur- or Proto-Gaultier seems dismissive, but what do you want? Giger? Sufficed to say, I had every intention of posting something, but then I sat down and googled Elsa Schiaparelli.

Sometimes I hear the high whistle of wind hitting some such building just so so it whistles even when the building's not there so I whistle just so sometimes I whistle as well. Sometimes I whistle. This is what it was that I was whistling today.



Then I drank a bunch of coffee and got the bass line to For the Love of Money by the O'Jays deeply stuck in my brain over and over to the point that, whilst trying to knock it off its perch with atom bombs of earworms (80s rap songs I know the words to, anything on Queen's greatest hits, pre-school morning circle songs), this fusillade's respective lower clef were summarily replaced, each and every, with bum bahm-bah-bm-bm bah-behmbehm-bah-bim. The spontaneous acappella mash-ups did get lively once I decided to giggle and give in. The dancing, however, remained bottled deep down for later.

I remember these from a good while ago, but I stumbled over them again and they're still so cool.

She takes baths all over.

I like trashy pulp magazines and 50s Italian ones more so.

I like to write backstories for strangers.

I get lost in pages composed in languages I don't speak. It helps me hear the noise of it as sound, like how shitty Spanish pop lyrics don't bother me.

Speaking of pulp leads to thinking of pin-ups. I lean towards cheesecake but Robert McGinnis's noir vibe has the same fans in my head as the ones that fondly remember reading James Bond novels as a boy.

To balance out all the pictures of tits, Djuna Barnes should be more well known if for no other reason than that her bio starts off with "Barnes was born in a log cabin on Storm King Mountain". I know the period is outside the quotation marks, but working around the comma at the end of that phrase would have been as cumbersome as continuing on to say near Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York.

The Russian designs turned my mind to Japanese prints and thinking about taking an art class at a community center.

There's a store in Prague named after Terry Gilliam's Sock and it has real cool posters.

While we're on it, Russians,

Revolverwind,

hand-style,

ravenlessness,

but birds.

The Black Hours:

Radical Maps:

OK. I'm sleepy now. Here is RTP TV.