clintcatalyst: Hello, Dark-hearts... † http://tinyurl.com/BlackRainbowsBloodyLollipops † An alternative to diggonometry: POST YOUR FAVORITE CONTENT HERE […]
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clintcatalyst: Someone stole yr jeep, @lizyd? SUCKAGE. I've thght my car was ganked a few times, but turned out my dumb ass just forgot where I parked. […]
this weekend: Friday, August 13th & Saturday, August 14th
Two Thousand & Ten A.D.
the roving, decadent, well-bedecked beast
is taking up residence at The Uptown in Oakland, CA
“…as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.”
:: but what is this ‘House of Usher’—this legendary construct of myth & mirth & mystery—without its cast of characters, its inhabitants? ::
First, Please Allow Me To Present…
Shawni Brothers, Proprietress of The Estate
The question posited, I hereby present a sampling of retinal treats under the auspices that it might inspire any indecisive whine-&-diners of this, my self-named blogature, to readjust one’s posture.
Sir Xavier Haight, The Gentleman of The House
&
Vocalist/Founder of Malign, The Critically-Acclaimed Darkwave Project
Cutting to the chase, with the swath of a switchblade: If you live anywhere in the vicinity of this one-two punch of delectable darkness: even a cursory glance at the gorgeous creatures that follow should propel you off your gluteous maximus & rifling through your closet.
Case in point? The hyper-hyphenate & über-hottie Zoetica Ebb, as pictured above. Of course, you could stay in tonight & lurk endless jpegs of her posted at Biorequiem, her home base among the internet ethers—or you could even go all brainiacattack (accusations of gay? who, me? NEVER. I would not!) & explore Miss Ebb’s prolific outpourings at the subculturally essential—let alone just downright damn sublime—thick & slick & glossy-paged love-letter to alternative culture known as Coilhouse magazine, of which she was a co-founder.
Or, hey! Here’s an idea: how ’bout you just stay home with a family-sized bag of Cheetos & instead of licking the nuclear-hued dandruff off your fingertips, close your eyes & BEAT IT, BOSS
all breathin’ heavy & visualizing this fab fascinatrix you might—no promises from me, as this world we live in? a pretty damn cruel place…
But yeah, you might have a chance to stand close enough to do borderline* creepy stuff like fill your lungs with the stink of her hair.
The asterisk on “borderline”? Bitch, you already know this! Because when we’re crushed-out, there’s some intense delusional hormones released that sell us clichés like how [we] “can’t help the way we feel,” and “no, I really mean it, you guys: this time isn’t like the last time when I said it’s about time I found the right [pick a pronoun, rinse, repeat; double-up on those appointments to the shrink, as close friends will only sigh in disgust, hang up, or pay someone to fark some sense into you. Quickly].”
Kay, I really need to focus here.
Ah! That’s right! The equation of your hormones with a jaunt to Usher this fine eve…
Unless, of course, you’ve slipped past that veritable point of ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE into a life of Ed Hardy sweatpants, woven leather belts the color of fecal matter, headbands from mega-corporate “non-corporate” franchises prominently listed—even & especially if by invisible ink—on the trustafarian American-Apparel-Apparel-Is-My-Idea-Of-Slumming, Ma-a-an pseudo post-post-ironic Hipster Checklist Of [COUGH!] Cool.
✷ Cunty Ranting Hereby Interrupted for A Ceasura of Correctness Maximus ✷
L O O K † U P O N
T H E S E † L O V E L Y † L A D I E S
Nakoeth [L] a.k.a. ‘The D.J. Formerly Known As Fuchsia’: Esteemed Provisionist of Hand-Picked Auditory Delights, & Sorrel Smith [R], A Prodigious Talent of The Visual Arts Who Renders
Her Paintings, Portraits, & Illustrations With Consummate Skill
✷ Palettes Cleansed, Corneas Stimulated…HEED THESE WORDS AS ‘CAUTION TAPE’ FOR YOUR PSYCHE, ✷ As There’s A Shifting Of Gears Back To Vitriolic Territory ✷ (Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.) ✷
Pfft! Oh.&.Yeah: The “Checklist of Cool.” That tripe’s more played-out than Dexy Midnight Runner’s lethal earworm known as “Come On Eileen,” but then again? Chances are if you’ve read—that’s read, any blog-skimmerexic stereotypes who’re in full-blown desperato zone, scrolling with sweaty palms & a staggering 2.8 second average attention span (thanks to the ADHD Pharmers calculated into the same demo/grapho/frankly, let’s-not-get-too-graphic, whose intake of Mother’s Little Helpers fluff up those statsas effectively as a porn set’s invaluable blow-hards working behind-the-scenes)…
Anyway, as I was saying–or, at the very least, attempting to communicate before I reverted to an unfortunate habit of interrupting myself with tangential matter & tossing parentheses around with the same ease as a game of horse-shoes…
:: HERE. HERE’S THIS ::
with Ryan Rosprim [L], Maker-Ov-Musick from Kill Sister Kill: A Band Among the ‘Short List’ of House Faves
& on the [R]? Most applicable? The Court Jester, if anything!
(Incidentally, if I look like a bitch here? Alas! A photographic representation that’s accurate)
You you you, yeah, you: with yourinsatiable hunger for celebrity gossip, commerce tagged as “sharing a secret” (such a flagrant ploy to incite the domino effect among the dumbed-down click, copy, paste & repost crowd to create viral content…yet just like the anything-but-accidental exposure of thongs several inches above [insert name of trendy jeans] horizon being the visual equivalent of a mating call, it’s as fool-proof as the endless supply of fools).
Umm, yeah. Whaddya say we don’t “revisit” the aforementioned yawn-fest (not to mention time-suck kthnxthoractuallyeallynot) & visualize the rapid sweeping gesture responsible for ~magic~ on a dry erase board. Yeah yeah, you know: the trademark disappearing act that occurs when ✷ POOF! ✷ It’s the same blinding white hue working actors & “working boys” have for teeth.
Anyway, so now? Keep that imagination crankin’! Since, upon it, there’s been an addition of verdant green text in which a new topic—an assignment, if you will—occupies that space with the insistence of CAPS LOCK.
The message? Consider this an invitation to (envision air quotes here) follow my lead &
commence whatever personal rituals permit you to complete your destination of being
:: Suited & Booted ::
Above This Text, The Look? Four Words, My Applause: I SEE NO FLAWS
As aforementioned, here’s a dangerously delectable sampling of the historical haunt’s gorgeous creatures dressed in sumptuous fineries. However! Before any butt-hurt gloomophiles dial whine one one for the What About Me?! What About Me!? waaahbumlance to arrive, with a stern tone, I reiterate: this is but a small cross-section of the legendary bar’s “intimate associates.” A vast array of ‘regulars’ populated Usher’s environ over the years; these pictures just happen feature some of the individuals who—for whatever various & sundry reasons—appealed to the “peculiar sensibilities & temperament” of this humble blog’s narrator.
Or, to quote Poe (yet again!): my “reserve [has] been always excessive & habitual.”
Here’s to
Cheers to
T H E † E X C E S S I V E † & † T R A N S G R E S S I V E
Exhibit A:
Sensual, Though Inherently Too Cultivated & Chic For One Dare To Describe As ‘Slutty.’
Sophisticated, Though With A Sufficient Accumulation Of Accolades; i.e., No Need To Be A Show-Off. An Infectiously Engaging Conversationalist—Perhaps The Most Charmingly Macabre Individual I’ve Ever Met, Actually. If you’re familiar with the photography of Eric Kroll, Steve Diet Goedde, Charles Gatewood, &/or Richard Kern (et al), you’ve seen her likeness: or rather, the image this anthropology major & multi-faceted individual chose to project at that precise moment in time.
A maestro of oil, Anna Noelle Rockwell‘s paintings explore the sublime intersection where
the gorgeous & the grotesque intersect. Just click it & check ‘em, already… (For feck’s sake!)
Exhibit B:
Gabriele: Conjurer Of Thunderstorms & Lunar Apparitions, Dark Liquidtrance Bloodscapes,
Scrying, Writhing Vampiric Chasms, Stitch-Witchery Of Glamoured Fabrications,
Brightly-Colored Tarot Playthings In A Physical Shape & Smash-Lit State Of Mind
Like No Other, Cemeterial Moonlit Gloom, & Body-Popping.
A individual in a wonderfully warped sense of the word, & a collector’s dream.
Exhibit C:
Though I Can’t Tell You If It’s From When He Was Or Wasn’t A ‘Prince,’
With All Certainty, I Concur With The Sentiment: Natalie? She’s Got The Look, Yes
Exhibit D:
Paris Sadonis: A Master of Multiple Instruments; A Painter, Performance Artist & Musician Known For Pushing Boundaries—Particularly With The Rotating Cast Of Collaborators in The Audio-Visual Pastiche He Both Created & Orchestrates: EXP. ‘EXPerimentation Without Limitation’ is a doctrine among the collective; ‘Catharticism Is The Key To Our Satisfaction’ is another.
:: Joie de Vivre ::
an editorial of Gareth Pugh‘s oil-slick, sicker-than-ever Autumn 2010/Winter 2011 collection
✷ Unfortunate, though necessary DISCLAIMER BEFORE VIEWING: This video contains partial female nudity in an artistic context. If you are easily offended, uptight, conservative, under the age of 18 in a country where breasts are against the law for minors to view; if you are on a public computer—including though not limited to libraries, internet cafés, airports, airplanes, and/or places of employment—within a public setting which could potentially expose anyone to partial nudity against his or her free will; if you do not appreciate fashion, have no respect for the beauty of the human body, are a member of the Clergy, adhere to a religion in which viewing the aforementioned will incite questionable behavior, immortal thoughts, if not altogether deem you a candidate for hellfire and eternal damnation; if you are immature, live anywhere on the planet that designates aforementioned material illegal for anyone under the age of 21 and you are not at least 21 years of age, live where obscenity laws are stringent regarding web site content—namely, countries in which women are expected to have their bodies completely clothed in any and all public forums, certain zip codes within the American Bible Belt, or quite frankly, anywhere mired in antiquated notions of morality: do not click on the arrow that appears in the embedded content; do not press “play,” and do not view any other content on this URL under any pretense. In no uncertain terms: please, DO YOURSELF & THE REST OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD A FAVOR & GO AWAY—IMMEDIATELY, NOT ONE SECOND LATER; YES, I AM SERIOUS WHEN I SAY KINDLY NAVIGATE ELSEWHERE & THAT MEANS NOW. ✷
:: whew! ::
That being stated, for the rest of us?
Enable Full Screen
&
C r a n k + T h e + V o l u m e
video description & full credits await
beneath the cut
Commissioned for Hintmag, the film features Rodarte‘s spring 2010 collection,
with shoes by Nicholas Kirkwood for Rodarte.
Radium, a white radioactive metal with the atomic number 88, turns black when exposed to oxygen.
The film explores themes of decay, metamorphosis, transformation, etc, all through the lens
of a dystopian and sci-fi vision, with a soundtrack by David Madden.”
And now this sublime “Fang” ring by Brett Westfall of Unholy Matrimony?!
Despite my scatter-shot land-mine of a memory, I can still recall Mr. Westfall lurking outside a boutique I managed, back in 2001. Cute, thin, and decidely of the “skater boy” ilk, he had samples of his line draped over an arm and for a good 15-20 minutes stood on the sidewalk, attempting to act all mad cazh with each furtive glance shot through the front window (punctuated with a flip of his dirty blond bangs, which I assumed was for dramatic effect).
I would remark, “‘Then poof!‘ he disappeared”—except that in the current context (translation: written by the über-poofter that I am), I can’t help but think a reader’s thoughts would veer towards certain inevitable double-entendres…
When that? That is not the case.
On the contrary, what I intend to say: I believe “extra-curricular” activities might have played a part in his no-show that afternoon. No-show until later, that is: when I begged/pleaded/pseudo-slyly coerced the shop’s owner to begin carrying his home-spun, (then) burgeoning line with the Goth-damaged name: Unholy Matrimony.
Mildred Von Hildegard’s Twitter bio might seem terse to some, pretentious to others. Whereas in my case? The concise and brutally honest description made me that much more intrigued about meeting and collaborating with her this Saturday past.
I Don’t Do ‘Friendly’ ☀ Photo: Dirk Mai ☀ Make-Up: Stacey Hummell
In a city illustrious for back-handed, capped-teeth “compliments” and unpredictable, unspoken disdain thinly disguised by a veritable check-list of publicists’ blanket statements, Hildegard’s choice for her 160-characters-or-less section on The ‘Twits seemed fitting with the images I’d seen of her clothing designs: anachronistic—a fetish posture collar adorned with tattered lace, roses in an array of shadowy hues and elements of Victorian mourning attire; sensual—soft tattered edges, the type of attire that fingertips long to touch; unapologetic—ruched leather, straps and buckles arranged without regard to which body parts “should” or “shouldn’t” be exposed. Essentially, her handiwork is the antithesis of all that is red carpet Hollywood and relentlessly bourg.
Known to her public by the moniker Mother of London, Hildegard is a seminal talent both coveted and revered by fashion cognoscenti . Consequently, she’s rabidly hunted by L.A.’s handful of fashion-forward stylists—hence her stitch-witchery gracing the cover of the latest S Magazine (on the explosive Juliette Lewis), along with editorials in Numero, AnOther magazine, Bizarre, Playboy, Marquis, et al.
Said another way? While I’m unsure how many details of aforementioned ‘Secret Project’ I’m permitted to share at this juncture in time, I can tell you this: upon arrival at the studio, I discovered a stylist had hoarded the collar Mother intended for the shoot.
The nerve. All the same, we had an excellent afternoon. Not only does The Mother corrupt traditional perceptions of fetishwear and period costume, she’s also adorable, donning death metal t-shirts and boundless charisma while doing so.
Yes, my choice of verbiage was deliberate (just as one can be over-dressed in attitude), and yes, I hope to be swathed in her sublime regalia again in the not-too-distant future. Of more immediate import, however—particularly for those quite a distance from her L.A. showroom—I have advantageous news:
Between October 2008 & now (‘now’ being this 22nd of May, Two Thousand and Ten), this textile fascinatrix has posted a mere six items in her etsy shop.
Two of the six are fresh on the market, & while they’re categorized as menswear, I’d classify them as UNISEXY…
“I have always tried to sublimate the body and to make people dream.”
Thierry Mugler: Galaxy Glamour,
the most recent compendium on one of the 20th Century’s most influential designers, is out now.
As a tribute to the so-called createur de shoc (“creator of shock”), I invite you to feast upon a series of clips demonstrative of a runway show in the truest sense of the word: a presentation at its most ostentatious, its most outrageous, its most theatrical.
While the couture division of Mugler’s House closed in 2003, his aesthetic explored a dramatic narrative populated by supermodels and superstars, or—in the words of the designer himself—”Personalities who know and accept who they are and fashion themselves accordingly.”
“Fashion is not enough,” Mugler once said. “I am trying to convey sensations and feelings…I am always telling stories…I invent my characters and put them on stage. For me, clothes are a language.”
Les défilés Prêt-à-porter 90
A language, albeit, that is highly-cultivated: structured beyond the ‘natural,’ the free-flowing or colloquial, Mugler’s vocabulary is one steeped in fetishistic visuals and exaggerated ideals.
Les défilés Prêt-à-porter 80
& as a bonus, Mugler as Director—
a ‘catwalk clip’ commissioned by George Michael for
the pop single “Too Funky”
:: so satirical & sublime, this one :: its relevance amplified :: in retrospect ::
(Go ahead & fling the slab of Velveeta at me over that one—I’ll cop the rationale of Twi-hards in my defense: “I don’t know how it happened! I must’ve been roofied or something, ’cause my taste level—I mean, my defenses—were down. Really: I’m really much cooler than that!” )
