Acabado Imperfecto

Textile printing and the environment

2012-01-26T23:11:00.000-08:00

Given the large size of the printing industry, and the extraordinary volume of chemicals it consumes, it is not surprising that it also generates a significant amount of pollution. Gaseous emissions have been identified as the second greatest pollution problem (after effluent quality) for the textile industry - and these are largely generated in printing. Speculation concerning the amounts and types of air pollutants emitted from textile operations has been widespread but, generally, air emission data for textile manufacturing operations are not readily available. Air pollution is the most difficult type of pollution to sample, test, and quantify in an audit. According to the U.S. EPA, the printing industry releases 99% of its total Toxic Release Inventory (TRI) poundage to the air, while the remaining one percent of releases are split between water and land disposal. This release profile differs significantly from other TRI industries which average approximately 60% to air, 30% to land, and 10% to water release respectively. Average VOC emissions per textile print line are 130 Mg (tons)/year for roller and 29 Mg/year for flat and rotary screen.

In 1995, more than 41 million pounds of toxic compounds were transferred or released into the environment by the printing industry in the United States alone. The table below shows some of the polluting chemicals used by the textile printing industry. All ten are petroleum-derived. Read more

Threadcrumbs, digital fabric library and textile resource. Private collection by Jude Hill

2012-01-26T09:27:00.000-08:00

Threadcrumbs is a digital reference library that will document Jude Hill's textile lovely collection as well as related resources. An inspiration depot for her work and the work of others. Some samples may be available for sale or swap. Contact her with questions or comments.

swedish embroidery motif

woven dot

spaced jaspe dobby

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Somehow a pillow

2012-01-24T00:49:00.000-08:00

Wind Virtual University

EDWARDIAN Antique Purse gold mesh metal Chain Metal Golden

2012-01-19T20:19:00.000-08:00

artedellamoda

Marie Antoniette: shoes and candy

2012-01-12T20:14:00.000-08:00

Babuches

2012-01-12T19:44:00.000-08:00

florizel.canalblog.com

Leather bags-clutch bags

2012-01-11T10:20:00.000-08:00

Justbelievebybelinda

Urban recycled furniture by Boris Bally

2012-01-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

designwagen.com

Some interior design

2012-01-06T05:30:00.000-08:00

Scandinavian Style

Some cute plastic purses

2012-01-06T05:22:00.000-08:00

Plasticland

Ballgowns, the exhibition

2012-01-06T04:56:00.000-08:00

V&A

Women in 1940

2012-01-04T00:49:00.001-08:00

Best costume design

2011-12-31T22:12:00.000-08:00

Alexandra Byrne.
‘Elizabeth: The Golden Age’

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
Costume Designer: Ngila Dickson, Richard Taylor
Best Costume Design (win): 2003 Saturn Award
Best Costume Design (win): 2003 British Academy Awards

Sandy Powell won the coveted Oscar for Best Costume Design for the 19th century period drama, The Young Victoria, at the 82nd annual Academy Awards.

Jenny Beavan is an Oscar nominee for best costume design for ‘The King’s Speech,’ above, starring Colin Firth as King George VI and Helena Bonham Carter as the Queen Mother. On the web, the odds favor Beavan or Colleen Atwood.

Cool lamp

2011-12-30T09:09:00.000-08:00

ShowRaum

Wedding photos

2011-12-30T06:36:00.000-08:00

sites.tepapa.govt.nz

Small furniture by okVersand

2011-12-28T22:20:00.000-08:00

okversand.com

Sarah Vaughan - Speak Low (Live) 1959

2011-12-28T22:04:00.001-08:00

Intreview to designer Tom Ford

2011-12-28T05:57:00.000-08:00

Style Forum Special from Music Guy on Vimeo.

Karl Lagerfeld Privat 1/3

2011-12-26T01:57:00.000-08:00

Moda ilustración

2011-12-25T04:12:00.000-08:00

flickr.com

Iconical

2011-12-23T09:02:00.001-08:00

urbanicablog.com

Eco-friendly Christmas trees

2011-12-23T08:59:00.000-08:00

inspirationgreen.com

Shop windows series

2011-12-15T04:11:00.000-08:00

tgdcharts.com

Queen Elizabeth II by Cecil Beaton, V&A Museum, London

2011-12-10T05:01:00.000-08:00

Featuring portraits of Queen Elizabeth II by royal photographer Cecil Beaton, this exhibition celebrates Her Majesty in her roles as princess, monarch and mother and coincides with the 60th anniversary of her accession to the throne. Explore this page to find out more. vam.ac.uk

Untitled Museum

2011-12-10T03:24:00.001-08:00

mocoloco.com

Fashion vs. Style

2011-12-09T23:35:00.001-08:00

Fashion VS Style - The most popular videos are a click away

Rainbow Dance (1936)

2011-12-09T23:26:00.000-08:00

Footage of The hearts of Age (1934) by Orson Welles & Rainbow Dance (1936) Kaleidoscope (1935) Colour Flight (1938) by Len Lye.

Music by Gestalt OrchestrA from Brian Eno & David Byrne My Life in the Bush of Ghosts.

Freely downloadable (creative commons) there http://www.dogmazic.net/static.php?op=musiqueIndex.php&album=10040+-+Das+Geheimnis+des+Lebens

This movie is part of the collection: Community Video

Packaging commodities

2011-12-09T23:15:00.000-08:00

Vive la France. Monoprix, One of the most celebrated names in French retailers, review with courage and determination of its packaging commodities such as milk, tomatoes, oil, etc., normally sold at a lower price and associated with a more predictable and less attractive .

In the new version, designed by the agency Havas City, all figurative element is purged in favor of the primacy of the printer, to effect a vaguely pop. The recipient? A customer-sensitive design, which does not want to associate the design of the food-to-the domain of junk (see the claim in the “not junk au design”).

Infographics illustrations of Victorian era

2011-12-09T23:11:00.000-08:00

Despite being among the means of communication out of fashion in this period Infographics Understood as displaying data in graphic form, has its origins far removed in time. For those looking for some inspiration radically different from those ordinarily Designerblog, here is a collection of infographics illustrations of Victorian era.

The Australian researcher has collected the Paul Kerrigan, an expert in ancient books and rare pictures and details. As evidence of its course a blog and then a book, BibliOdysseyCollect part of the materials found, for example, that nineteenth-century illustrations found in our gallery, including a Tableau of Universal History of 1858, an illustration on time zones of cities in the world than the one in Dresden, and the distribution of species Equatorial plants in America.

A beautiful chair

2011-12-09T23:06:00.000-08:00

Is a beautiful garden chair plastic and steel and bored by sitting round, divided into color Brilant. But Solair is also an icon of Canadian design, designed in 1972 by designer couple of Montreal and Fabio Fabiano Michelange Panzini.

After having been for more than thirty years of a classic American summer, gardens, patios and verandas of houses and motels (as to be commonly identified as “the motel chair”), was quietly production output, an object of a ‘ another age that had lost its appeal, outdated. The love of vintage made, New Solair desirable and fashionable, so much so that its producers, Industries Emile Lachance Ltd, to put it back into production.

Old swedish quilts

2011-12-03T03:54:00.000-08:00

annekata.blogspot.com

Film star postcards

2011-11-14T05:56:00.000-08:00

Find the most beautiful european film star postcards in filmstarpostcards

Pillows

2011-11-11T09:18:00.001-08:00

bhg.com

Same dress every day

2011-11-09T10:16:00.000-08:00

Kristy Powell never has trouble deciding what to wear in the morning because she’s vowed to wear the same dress every day in 2011. Powell’s One Dress Protest was inspired by years of feeling she had to look a certain way, so she's following in the footsteps of the Uniform Project’s Sheena Matheiken — she even bought the identical dress.

But Powell’s protest isn’t just about challenging concepts of beauty, identity and fashion: “My message is that the way we consume now is harmful to our sense of self and unsustainable for the environment." While she admits that she’ll always have a soft spot for her jeans, she’s been enjoying her project — except for when she shrunk her first dress by 4 inches.

Powell says she hopes to inspire others to begin making practical changes in their consumption habits. “If we consume quality, ethically and sustainably crafted items, our overall consumption can be drastically reduced, and our carbon footprint is substantially cut, too.” Mothe Nature Network

Suit, Balenciaga

2011-11-07T06:57:00.001-08:00

Suit (jacket and skirt)
Cristóbal Balenciaga (1895-1972)
Autumn/winter 1954-5
Paris
Tweed, lined with silk
Museum no. T.128&A-1982
Worn by Mrs Opal Holt and given by Mrs Haynes and Mrs Clark

This suit comprises a fitted jacket and slim-fitting skirt with a kick pleat at the back. It was shown in Balenciaga's Winter collection in 1954 as model no. 55. It reveals Balenciaga’s debt to his training in tailoring in Spain and his capacity for choosing fabrics fit for purpose. His suits were highly regarded and commanded high prices. In the early 1950s, a made-to-measure woollen suit from Balenciaga cost about £112, a sum well beyond the reach of most consumers.

He was adept at manipulating firm fabrics. The style of jacket relies for effect on careful fitting to the body in front and gentle fullness at the back, and in the setting of the sleeves. Balenciaga was renowned in the trade for inspecting and resetting sleeves that were not perfect.

Tweed was a sturdy woollen fabric that appealed to Balenciaga because of the optical illusions created by the two or more colours in the indistinct flecked pattern. Via: vam.ac.uk

The History of a Cheap Dress

2011-10-28T03:45:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth Cline is a Brooklyn-based writer and activist working on a book about responsible shopping in the age of cheap fashion, when low prices and rapid turnover of styles have ignited out-of-control clothing consumption. The book, called The Good Closet, will be published by Penguin Portfolio in spring 2012. You can follow the project at The Good Closet.

Story by ElizabethGoodCloset

Published on May 31, 2011 in Read Photo by genibee on Flickr

Everywhere American consumers shop — from outlet malls to department store sales racks — deals flourish. But where can one find the cheapest dress? “Fast fashion” purveyors like Forever 21 and H&M are known for their low prices, high volume, and rapid turnover of styles. It’s amazing to think that a hundred years ago, at the birth of ready-made clothing as we know it, women would drop six hundred dollars for a Parisian knock-off. Today a fashionable dress is cheaper than a bag of dog food. How did we get here?

In the early 1900s, the sewing machine had only been around a half a century and the production quality and fit coming off the assembly lines needed some polishing. Decent menswear could be bought off the rack, and men were slowly warming up to ready-made duds. But for women there was a deep divide between high-end European fashions acquired by the wealthy and the flimsy, flashy, of-the-moment items available to everyone else. According to Jan Whitaker’s book Service and Style, a history of department stores, a ready-made knockoff of a French “lingerie style” dress started at $25 ($621.50 in today’s dollars) at Marshall Field’s in 1902. It was more feasible for the average girl to buy a ready-made women’s suit, which started at $7.95 ($190) or, better yet, the quintessential shirtwaist, which sold for just 39 cents ($9.34) at the turn-of-the-century. The fashion-hound of modest means was better off making her own dresses or ordering them from the local dressmaker.

Illustration by Lena Corwin

By the 1950s, quality ready-made fashion was within the reach of the middle-class. America’s garment industry was the envy of the world and womenswear was its number one product. The International Ladies Garment Workers Union had almost 450,000 members and the sweatshops of the industry’s early days had been largely abolished. The 1955 Sears Catalog was a veritable wonderland of nipped-waisted frocks with Dior-inspired voluminous skirts. Style, quality, and affordability had found a meeting point. For a reasonable $8.95 ($72), you could order Sears’ “best acetate and rayon crepe” slim-cut dress in black or navy blue, with a set-on bodice and detachable nylon-organdy collar. The dress came with a rhinestone pin. Women also continued to sew at home, using a myriad of fashionable patterns available in women’s magazines.

Photo by Art by Heather on Flickr

A typical 1950s catalog.

Fast forward fifty years and the price of mass-market fashion has plummeted, as the garment industry has moved to lower wage countries. We now only make 3% of our apparel in the United States, down from 90% in 1955. The prices of these imports are so low that we have long since abandoned our sewing machines and deserted our dressmakers. Our clothes have also become increasingly casual and simplified, another reason for lower price tags.

As clothes have become cheaper, our clothing consumption has gone through the roof. In 1930, the average American woman owned an average of nine outfits. Today, we each buy more than 60 pieces of new clothing on average per year. Our closets are larger and more stuffed than ever, as we’ve traded quality and style for low prices and trend-chasing. In the face of these irresistible deals, our total spending on clothing has actually increased, from $7.82 billion spent on apparel in 1950 to $375 billion today. And the discounters are reaping the rewards. According to the latest Standard & Poor’s Industry Survey, the average American consumer is primarily looking for value with an impulse-buy standard of quality when they purchase clothing. As a result, H&M, Zara, and Wal-Mart — all discounters who sell low-quality clothing — are now the most powerful clothing brands in America.

Elizabeth Cline’s research on the global impact of fast fashion raises many questions about how to dress ethically (and fashionably) on a budget. In the coming months, we’ll explore the stories behind our clothes — who makes them, where they come from and why it matters. However, the question remains: Just what does your closet look like? Do you feel conflicted about purchasing fast fashion? Are you willing to spend big bucks on an investment piece? And how does one achieve a “good closet”?

Elizabeth Cline is a Brooklyn-based writer working on a book about responsible shopping in the age of cheap fashion, when low prices and rapid turnover of styles have ignited out-of-control clothing consumption. The book, called The Good Closet, will be published by Penguin Portfolio in spring 2012. You can follow the project at The Good Closet. Etsy

Le Book

2009-12-25T11:57:00.001-08:00

lebook.com

Shoe Nº3

2009-12-12T08:42:00.001-08:00

andreamilianshoes

Aristocrats of Fashion (ca. late 1930s - early 1940s)

2009-12-06T12:11:00.000-08:00

Revisit November North Five

2009-12-05T11:43:00.000-08:00

His, hers

2009-12-05T10:02:00.000-08:00

Etsy

Maria Antonieta fashion

2009-11-24T02:37:00.000-08:00

Who is Emily the strange?

2009-11-09T10:45:00.000-08:00

Emily the Strange came to life in the early 1990's and quickly became a beloved counterculture icon all around the world. In her earliest years, she was a quiet but sharp-witted stranger, slinging philosophy and cultural observations in a series of hand-screened t-shirts and stickers. As her presence grew and became a standard in the cultural underground, Emily's own story began to emerge in a series of gift books, then comic-books and graphic novels, and now a novel series for young adults.

Today, Emily continues to be a voice for individualism and self-awareness, and her appeal is especially strong among alternative-minded young women and girls who identify with her signature singularity. Her presence in the worlds of art, pop culture, literature, and fashion celebrates non-conformist and reminds us all to cultivate that which makes us unique.
Emily is: An Artist, A Dreamer, An Inventor, A Scientist, A Skater, A Rocker and An Individual!

Emily's not your average thirteen year-old-girl. Pink is her worst nightmare...she wears the same black dress every day. She loves math and science. Her best friends are her four BLACK CATS! She's into old rock & punk, but also digs newer bands like My Chemical Romance (BTW, Gerard Way is featured in her Dark Horse comic book, "Revenge at Last!") Emily is so anticool she's cool... a subculture of one, and a follower of no one but herself.

Designers including Jean-Paul Gaultier, Valentino and Marc Jacobs have paid tribute to her, but she doesn't care! Emily wants you to be yourself, think for yourself, and DO IT YOURSELF!

Visit her website.

Easy

2009-10-04T01:21:00.000-07:00

The Tract House

2009-09-22T22:46:00.001-07:00

The Tract House is looking for new tracts!

In conjunction with the American Philosophical Society (APS) Museum and Philagrafika, The Tract House: The Darwin Addition will be distributing tracts in Philadelphia in early 2010.

For this special incarnation of The Tract House, we are specifically seeking tracts that have to do with the ideas, themes, and life of Charles Darwin!

Tracts can focus on all matter of Darwiniana, including, but not limited to: geology, theology, sexuality, asexuality, extinction, deep time, God, God-lessness, natural selection, mutation, survival of the fittest, breeding, inbreeding, observation, cannibalism, ape relatives, botany, barnacles, hermaphrodites, lost continents, heredity, and animal emotions. In addition, tract writers may want to tackle more practical issues, such as: food and hygiene on a five year journey, how to make friends with strangers living on islands, beards, pet turtles, on-board diversions, keeping specimens from accidentally being eaten, killing for science, and world travel pre-internet.

To see the online exhibition about Darwin at the APS Museum, visit APSMuseum.org/Darwin.
Do not feel the necessity of being bound simply by “facts.” The tract is the perfect vehicle for your own crackpot theory, well-reasoned idea, kneejerk rant, or stalwart manifesto. The purpose of a tract is to convince your reader of something you truly believe. Your tract can be urgent, convincing, loud, strident, scolding or simmering, genuine, soft, or ridiculous. Use the tools your language has to offer: humor, metaphor, poetics, allegory, melodrama.

Tracts can vary in length from a few choice words to a longer story. The tracts will be professionally designed by Roman Jaster. To see all tracts previously published by The Tract House, please visit TheTractHouse.com. For images of The Tract House in action, visit http://www.lisaanneauerbach.com/projects/tracthouse/index.html

{For those of you who submitted tracts for the Miami Tract House that was cancelled last October due to recession, we will try to use submitted tracts that can somehow be related to Darwin!}

Deadline for tracts: October 1, 2009. Please submit your text to TheTractHouse@gmail.com
Vía: http://stealthissweater.blogspot.com/

Cute

2009-09-07T15:05:00.001-07:00

www.etsy.com

Nude

2009-08-16T09:52:00.001-07:00

Sexist Office Fashion Show (Standard 4:3) (1955)

2009-08-16T08:57:00.001-07:00

Fashion Interview. An interview with an American about Fashion and how it influences his life.

2009-08-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

Sleeping beauty

2009-06-27T13:12:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time there was a Queen who had a beautiful baby daughter. She asked all the fairies in the kingdom to the christening, but unfortunately forgot to invite one of them, who was a bit of a witch as well. She came anyway, but as she passed the baby's cradle, she said:

"When you are sixteen, you will injure yourself with a spindle and die!"

"Oh, no!" screamed the Queen in horror. A good fairy quickly chanted a magic spell to change the curse. When she hurt herself, the girl would fall into a very deep sleep instead of dying.

The years went by, the little Princess grew and became the most beautiful girl in the whole kingdom. Her mother was always very careful to keep her away from spindles, but the Princess, on her sixteenth birthday, as she wandered through the castle, came into a room where an old servant was spinning.

"What are you doing?" she asked the servant.

"I'm spinning. Haven't you seen a spindle before?"

"No. Let me see it!" The servant handed the girl the spindle ... and she pricked herself with it and. with a sigh, dropped to the floor.

The terrified old woman hurried to tell the Queen. Beside herself with anguish, the Queen did her best to awaken her daughter but in vain. The court doctors and wizards were called, but there was nothing they could do. The girl could not be wakened from her deep sleep. The good fairy who managed to avoid the worst of the curse came too, and the Queen said to her,

"When will my daughter waken?"

"I don't know," the fairy admitted sadly.

"In a year's time, ten years or twenty?" the Queen went on.

"Maybe in a hundred years' time. Who knows?" said the fairy.

"Oh! What would make her waken?" asked the Queen weeplng.

"Love," replied the fairy. "If a man of pure heart were to fall in love with her, that would bring her back to life!"

"How can a man fall in love with a sleeping girl?" sobbed the Queen, and so heart-broken was she that, a few days later, she died. The sleeping Princess was taken to her room and laid on the bed surrounded by garlands of flowers. She was so beautiful, with a sweet face, not like those of the dead, but pink like those who are sleeping peacefully. The good fairy said to herself,

"When she wakens, who is she going to see around her? Strange faces and people she doesn't know? I can never let that happen. It would be too painful for this unfortunate girl."

So the fairy cast a spell; and everyone that lived in the castle - soldiers, ministers, guards, servants, ladies, pages, cooks, maids and knights - all fell into a deep sleep, wherever they were at that very moment.

"Now," thought the fairy, "when the Princess wakes up, they too will awaken, and life will go on from there." And she left the castle, now wrapped in silence. Not a sound was to be heard, nothing moved except for the clocks, but when they too ran down, they stopped, and time stopped with them. Not even the faintest rustle was to be heard, only the wind whistling round the turrets, not a single voice, only the cry of birds.

The years sped past. In the castle grounds, the trees grew tall. The bushes became thick and straggling, the grass invaded the courtyards and the creepers spread up the walls. In a hundred years, a dense forest grew up.

Now, it so happened that a Prince arrived in these parts. He was the son of a king in a country close by. Young, handsome and melancholy, he sought in solitude everything he could not find in the company of other men: serenity, sincerity and purity. Wandering on his trusty steed he arrived, one day, at the dark forest. Being adventurous, he decided to explore it. He made his way through slowly and with a struggle, for the trees and bushes grew in a thick tangle. A few hours later, now losing heart, he was about to turn his horse and go back when he thought he could see something through the trees . . . He pushed back the branches . . . Wonder of wonders! There in front of him stood a castle with high towers. The young man stood stock still in amazement,

"I wonder who this castle belongs to?" he thought.

The young Prince rode on towards the castle. The drawbridge was down and, holding his horse by the reins, he crossed over it. Immediately he saw the inhabitants draped all over the steps, the halls and courtyards, and said to himself,

"Good heavens! They're dead!" But in a moment, he realised that they were sound asleep. "Wake up! Wake up!" he shouted, but nobody moved. Still thoroughly astonished, he went into the castle and again discovered more people, lying fast asleep on the floor. As though led by a hand in the complete silence, the Prince finally reached the room where the beautiful Princess lay fast asleep. For a long time he stood gazing at her face, so full of serenity, so peaceful, lovely and pure, and he felt spring to his heart that love he had always been searching for and never found. Overcome by emotion, he went close, lifted the girl's little white hand and gently kissed it . . .

At that kiss, the prlncess qulckly opened her eyes, and wakening from her long long sleep, seeing the Prince beside her, murmured:

"Oh, you have come at last! I was waiting for you in my dream. I've waited so long!"

Just then, the spell was broken. The Princess rose to her feet, holding out her hand to the Prince. And the whole castle woke up too. Everybody rose to their feet and they all stared round in amazement, wondering what had happened. When they finally realised, they rushed to the Princess, more beautiful and happier then ever.

A few days later, the castle that only a short time before had lain in silence, now rang with the sound of singing, music and happy laughter at the great party given in honour of the Prince and Princess, who were getting married. They lived happily ever after, as they always do in fairy tales, not quite so often, however, in real life.

Note

This text was taken from the funet archive and converted to HTML by myself.

John Keats

2009-06-20T09:47:00.001-07:00

Sold in Flickr

2009-02-05T03:02:00.001-08:00

Brechó La Vaquitta

Camper: Tu imaginación que vuela

2009-01-09T13:21:00.001-08:00

Tienes que registrarte.

Ode to Salvador Dalí, Federico García Lorca

2009-01-04T06:36:00.001-08:00

A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.

The modern painters in their white ateliers
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.

An absence of forests and screens and brows
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.

Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.

*

Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.

Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.

*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.

Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.

The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.

The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.

When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.

You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.

You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.

The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.

You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.

The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.

*

But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.

Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!

*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.

I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.

I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.

Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.

May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.

Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.

More vespas

2009-01-04T06:29:00.000-08:00

By Huro Kitty

Vespas

2009-01-04T06:25:00.000-08:00

By Huro Kitty

Milton Glaser

2008-12-25T03:56:00.001-08:00

www.miltonglaser.com

21 X TAK

2008-12-22T04:34:00.000-08:00

www.solidarnosc.gov.pl

The fashion system, Roland Barthes

2008-12-21T07:21:00.001-08:00

In his consideration of the language of the fashion magazine--the structural analysis of descriptions of women's clothing by writers about fashion--Barthes gives us a brief history of semiology. At the same time, he identifies economics as the underlying reason for the luxuriant prose of the fashion magazine: "Calculating, industrial society is obliged to form consumers who don't calculate; if clothing's producers and consumers had the same consciousness, clothing would be bought (and produced) only at the very slow rate of its dilapidation."

GoogBooks

Eric Satie

2008-12-16T22:39:00.000-08:00

Coco Chanel parle de la mode

2008-12-16T04:59:00.000-08:00

Sterling crescent tops

2008-12-11T10:00:00.001-08:00

Link

Towheed: New Readings in the literature of British India

2008-12-11T07:34:00.000-08:00

Towheed: New Readings in the Literature of British India
Towheed, Shafquat (Hrsg.):
New Readings in the Literature of British India, c.1780-1947 / Shafquat Towheed (ed.). - Stuttgart : Ibidem Verlag, 2007. - 334 S. - (Studies in English Literatures ; 9)
ISBN 978-3-89821-673-9
EUR 39,90

The twelve contributions to this book amply demonstrate the richness, vitality and complexity of the colonial transactions between Britain and India over the last two centuries, and they do so by approaching the topic from a specific perspective: by interpreting the rubric ‘new readings’ as broadly, creatively and productively as possible. They cover a wide range of literary responses and genres: eighteenth-century drama, the gothic novel, verse, autobiography, history, religious writing, journalism, women’s memoirs, travel writing, popular fiction, and the modernist novel. Brought together in one volume, these essays offer a small, but representative sample of the multifaceted literary and cultural traffic between Britain and India in the colonial period. In the richness and diversity of the various contributors’ strategies and interpretations, these new readings urge us to return once again to texts that we think we know, as well as to explore those that we do not, with a freshly renewed sense of their complexity, immediacy, and relevance.

indologica

I ask myself

2008-12-11T01:57:00.000-08:00

I ask myself, how many times should we destroy ourselves to go ahead.

To confess

2008-12-10T06:42:00.001-08:00

Nothing to confess, nothing to say.
Link

Camille Claudel

2008-12-10T06:27:00.001-08:00

Camille Claudel was born in Fère-en-Tardenois, Aisne, in northern France, the second child of a family of farmers and gentry. Her father, Louis Prosper, dealt in mortgages and bank transactions. Her mother, the former Louise Athanaïse Cécile Cerveaux, came from a Champagne family of Catholic farmers and priests. The family moved to Villeneuve-sur-Fère while Camille was still a baby. Her younger brother Paul Claudel was born there in 1868. Subsequently they moved to Bar-le-Duc (1870), Nogent-sur-Seine (1876), and Wassy-sur-Blaise (1879), although they continued to spend summers in Villeneuve-sur-Fère, and the stark landscape of that region made a deep impression on the children. Camille moved with her mother, brother and younger sister to the Montparnasse area of Paris in 1881, her father having to remain behind, working to support them.

Fascinated with stone and soil as a child, as a young woman she studied at the Académie Colarossi with sculptor Alfred Boucher. (At the time, the École des Beaux-Arts barred women from enrolling to study.) In 1882, Claudel rented a workshop with other young women, mostly English, including Jessie Lipscomb. In 1883, she met Auguste Rodin, who taught sculpture to Claudel and her friends.

Around 1884, she started working in Rodin's workshop. Claudel became his source of inspiration, his model, his confidante and lover. She never lived with Rodin, who was reluctant to end his 20-year relationship with Rose Beuret. Although pregnant, Claudel never had children with Rodin; she lost the child in an accident[1], which sent her into a deep depression. Knowledge of the affair agitated her family, especially her mother, who never completely agreed with Claudel's involvement in the arts. As a consequence, she left the family house. In 1892, perhaps after an unwanted abortion, Claudel ended the intimate aspect of her relationship with Rodin, although they saw one another regularly until 1898.

Beginning in 1903, she exhibited her works at the Salon des Artistes français or at the Salon d'Automne. It would be a mistake to assume that Claudel's reputation has survived simply because of her notorious association with Rodin. She was in fact a brilliant sculptor in her own right, and the famous art critic Octave Mirbeau wrote she was "A revolt against nature: a woman genius". Her early work is similar to Rodin's in spirit, but shows an imagination and lyricism quite her own, particularly in the famous Bronze Waltz (1893). The Age of Maturity (1900) whilst interpreted by her brother as a powerful allegory of her break with Rodin, with one figure The Implorer that was produced as an edition of its own, has also been interpreted in a less purely autobiographical mode as an even more powerful representation of change and purpose in the human condition. The different scales, the different modes of plasticity, and gender-representation, of the three figures which make up this important group, enable a more universal thematic and metaphoric stylistics related to the ages of existence, childhood, maturity, and the perspective of the transcendent (v. Angela Ryan, "Camille Claudel: the Artist as Heroinic Rhetorician." Irish Women's Studies Review vol 8: Making a Difference: Women and the Creative Arts. (December 2002): 13-28). Her onyx and bronze small-scale Wave (1897) was a conscious break in style with her Rodin period, with a decorative quality quite different from the "heroic" feeling of her earlier work. In the early years of the 20th Century, Claudel had patrons, dealers, and commercial success - she had no need to bask in the reflected light of another.

From 1905 on, Claudel acted mentally deranged. She destroyed many of her statues, disappeared for long periods of time and acted paranoid. She accused Rodin of stealing her ideas and of leading a conspiracy to kill her. After the wedding of her brother (who supported her until then) in 1906 and his return to China after a stay in France, she lived secluded in her workshop.

Her father, who approved of her career choice, tried to help her and supported her financially. When he died on March 2, 1913, Claudel was not informed of his death. On March 10, 1913 at the initiative of her brother, she was admitted to the psychiatric hospital of Ville-Évrard in Neuilly-sur-Marne. The form read that she had been "voluntarily" committed, although her admission was signed by a doctor and her brother. Some historians speculate that her brother, also an artist, felt overshadowed by her strength in art and wanted her out of the way. There are records to show that while she did have mental outbursts, she was clear-headed while working on her art. Doctors tried to convince the family that she need not be in the institution, but still they kept her there.

In 1914, to be safe from advancing German troops, the patients at Ville-Évrard were at first relocated to Enghien. On 7 September 1914 Camille was transferred with a number of other women, to the Montdevergues Asylum, at Montfavet, six kilometres from Avignon. Her certificate of admittance to Montdevergues was signed on 22 September 1914; it reported that she suffered "from a systematic persecution delirium mostly based upon false interpretations and imagination".

For a while, the press accused her family of committing a sculptor of genius. Her mother forbade her to receive mail from anyone other than her brother. The hospital staff regularly proposed to her family that Claudel be released, but her mother adamantly refused each time. On June 1, 1920, physician Dr. Brunet sent a letter advising her mother to try to reintegrate her daughter into the family environment. Nothing came of this.

Paul Claudel visited her every few years, though he referred to her in the past tense. In 1929 Jessie Lipscomb visited her.

Camille Claudel died on October 19, 1943, after having lived 30 years in the asylum at Montfavet (known then as the Asile de Montdevergues, now the modern psychiatric hospital Centre Hospitalier de Montfavet), and without a visit from her mother or sister. (Her mother died on June 20, 1929.) Some biographies list her death as 1920. Her body was interred in the cemetery of Monfavet.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camille_Claudel

My secret garden

2008-12-10T01:05:00.001-08:00

jomeesters

Kim Levin

2008-12-06T12:53:00.001-08:00

Kiasma

Ouka Lele

2008-11-30T10:57:00.001-08:00

Ouka Lele

The Shirelles

2008-11-30T10:50:00.000-08:00

Vintage shoes

2008-11-30T10:41:00.001-08:00

Image

Frances Benjamin Johnston

2008-11-30T10:29:00.000-08:00

Image

Vintage suit

2008-11-30T08:15:00.001-08:00

Vintage suit with a great vintage look, check this one out! The jacket is unstructured with a slightly raised collar. The center front opening has only a hook/eye closure at the neckline, with the rest of the jacket open. The shoulders are padded and the sleeves are three-quarter length. The sleeves do have a decorative banding at the lower edge. This banding is also incorporated into the jacket. The left side of the jacket front has a horizontal band beginning at the opening and crossing just above the bustline. A vertical band joins the horizontal band and continues to the hemline of the jacket. The veritical banding is accented with seven (7) large black buttons (see Jacket Detail). The jacket has small vertical openings for a belt to thread through; however there is no belt with the jacket. A thin, black belt would be easy to find and add to complete the look. The jacket falls to approximately mid-hip length and is not lined. The matching skirt is slightly a-lined with a side metal zipper closure. There is also a hook/eye at the waistline which needs a bit of reinforcement. The skirt also has matching decorative horizontal and vertical banding and buttons (see Skirt Details). The suit is in very good condition; however it is missing the belt and needs a bit of work at the side opening (hook/eye). The jacket measures approximately: bustline=36", shoulder to shoulder width=15" and length=24 1/2". The skirt measures approximately: waistline=26" and length=33".

For sale at http://www.victorianelegance.com/

Beret style hat

2008-11-30T07:29:00.001-08:00

Lovely beret style hat is made by "Betmar" and is created in a magenta colored velvet. The hat is soft and pliable. It has a soft band which is accented with a material covered button on the side. The hat is in very good condition and very wearable. The inside features a wide grosgrain banding and the "Betmar" label (see Detail Views).
For sale at http://www.victorianelegance.com

Pop Art Board

2008-11-30T04:04:00.001-08:00

Necklace by http://workingcreativity.com/recent/

Tomato Tomahawks

2008-11-30T04:02:00.001-08:00

workingcreativity

Homenatge USSR

2008-11-27T10:39:00.001-08:00

Imagen http://green-bubble.org

The garden of the woman learned in magic, Hans Christian Andersen

2008-11-25T02:12:00.001-08:00

Then an old, old woman came out of the house; she was leaning upon a big, hooked stick, and she wore a big sun hat, which was covered with beautiful painted flowers.

But how was little Gerda getting on all this long time since Kay left her? Where could he be? Nobody knew, nobody could say anything about him. All that the other boys knew was, that they had seen him tie his little sledge to a splendid big one which drove away down the street and out of the town gates. Nobody knew where he was, and many tears were shed; little Gerda cried long and bitterly. At last, people said he was dead; he must have fallen into the river which ran close by the town. Oh, what long, dark, winter days those were!

At last the spring came and the sunshine.

'Kay is dead and gone,' said little Gerda.

'I don't believe it,' said the sunshine.

'He is dead and gone,' she said to the swallows.

'We don't believe it,' said the swallows; and at last little Gerda did not believe it either.

'I will put on my new red shoes,' she said one morning; 'those Kay never saw; and then I will go down to the river and ask it about him!'

It was very early in the morning; she kissed the old grandmother, who was still asleep, put on the red shoes, and went quite alone, out by the gate to the river.

'Is it true that you have taken my little playfellow? I will give you my red shoes if you will bring him back to me again.'

She thought the little ripples nodded in such a curious way, so she took off her red shoes, her most cherished possessions, and threw them both into the river. They fell close by the shore, and were carried straight back to her by the little wavelets; it seemed as if the river would not accept her offering, as it had not taken little Kay.

She only thought she had not thrown them far enough; so she climbed into a boat which lay among the rushes, then she went right out to the further end of it, and threw the shoes into the water again. But the boat was loose, and her movements started it off, and it floated away from the shore: she felt it moving and tried to get out, but before she reached the other end the boat was more than a yard from the shore, and was floating away quite quickly.

Little Gerda was terribly frightened, and began to cry, but nobody heard her except the sparrows, and they could not carry her ashore, but they flew alongside twittering, as if to cheer her, 'We are here, we are here.' The boat floated rapidly away with the current; little Gerda sat quite still with only her stockings on; her little red shoes floated behind, but they could not catch up the boat, which drifted away faster and faster.

The banks on both sides were very pretty with beautiful flowers, fine old trees, and slopes dotted with sheep and cattle, but not a single person.

'Perhaps the river is taking me to little Kay,' thought Gerda, and that cheered her; she sat up and looked at the beautiful green banks for hours.

Then they came to a big cherry garden; there was a little house in it, with curious blue and red windows, it had a thatched roof, and two wooden soldiers stood outside, who presented arms as she sailed past. Gerda called out to them; she thought they were alive, but of course they did not answer; she was quite close to them, for the current drove the boat close to the bank. Gerda called out again, louder than before, and then an old, old woman came out of the house; she was leaning upon a big, hooked stick, and she wore a big sun hat, which was covered with beautiful painted flowers.

'You poor little child,' said the old woman, 'how ever were you driven out on this big, strong river into the wide, wide world alone?' Then she walked right into the water, and caught hold of the boat with her hooked stick; she drew it ashore, and lifted little Gerda out.

Gerda was delighted to be on dry land again, but she was a little bit frightened of the strange old woman.

'Come, tell me who you are, and how you got here,' said she.

When Gerda had told her the whole story and asked her if she had seen Kay, the woman said she had not seen him, but that she expected him. Gerda must not be sad, she was to come and taste her cherries and see her flowers, which were more beautiful than any picture-book; each one had a story to tell. Then she took Gerda by the hand, they went into the little house, and the old woman locked the door.

The windows were very high up, and they were red, blue, and yellow; they threw a very curious light into the room. On the table were quantities of the most delicious cherries, of which Gerda had leave to eat as many as ever she liked. While she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, so that the hair curled, and shone like gold round the pretty little face, which was as sweet as a rose.

'I have long wanted a little girl like you!' said the old woman. 'You will see how well we shall get on together.' While she combed her hair Gerda had forgotten all about Kay, for the old woman was learned in the magic art; but she was not a bad witch, she only cast spells over people for a little amusement, and she wanted to keep Gerda. She therefore went into the garden and waved her hooked stick over all the rose-bushes, and however beautifully they were flowering, all sank down into the rich black earth without leaving a trace behind them. The old woman was afraid that if Gerda saw the roses she would be reminded of Kay, and would want to run away. Then she took Gerda into the flower garden. What a delicious scent there was! and every imaginable flower for every season was in that lovely garden; no picture-book could be brighter or more beautiful. Gerda jumped for joy and played till the sun went down behind the tall cherry trees. Then she was put into a lovely bed with rose-coloured silken coverings stuffed with violets; she slept and dreamt as lovely dreams as any queen on her wedding day.

The next day she played with the flowers in the garden again—and many days passed in the same way. Gerda knew every flower, but however many there were, she always thought there was one missing, but which it was she did not know.

One day she was sitting looking at the old woman's sun hat with its painted flowers, and the very prettiest one of them all was a rose. The old woman had forgotten her hat when she charmed the others away. This is the consequence of being absent-minded.

'What!' said Gerda, 'are there no roses here?' and she sprang in among the flower-beds and sought, but in vain! Her hot tears fell on the very places where the roses used to be; when the warm drops moistened the earth the rose-trees shot up again, just as full of bloom as when they sank. Gerda embraced the roses and kissed them, and then she thought of the lovely roses at home, and this brought the thought of little Kay.

'Oh, how I have been delayed,' said the little girl, 'I ought to have been looking for Kay! Don't you know where he is?' she asked the roses. 'Do you think he is dead and gone?'

'He is not dead,' said the roses. 'For we have been down underground, you know, and all the dead people are there, but Kay is not among them.'

'Oh, thank you!' said little Gerda, and then she went to the other flowers and looked into their cups and said, 'Do you know where Kay is?'

But each flower stood in the sun and dreamt its own dreams. Little Gerda heard many of these, but never anything about Kay.

And what said the Tiger lilies?

'Do you hear the drum? rub-a-dub, it has only two notes, rub-a-dub, always the same. The wailing of women and the cry of the preacher. The Hindu woman in her long red garment stands on the pile, while the flames surround her and her dead husband. But the woman is only thinking of the living man in the circle round, whose eyes burn with a fiercer fire than that of the flames which consume the body. Do the flames of the heart die in the fire?'

'I understand nothing about that,' said little Gerda.

'That is my story,' said the Tiger lily.

'What does the convolvulus say?'

'An old castle is perched high over a narrow mountain path, it is closely covered with ivy, almost hiding the old red walls, and creeping up leaf upon leaf right round the balcony where stands a beautiful maiden. She bends over the balustrade and looks eagerly up the road. No rose on its stem is fresher than she; no apple blossom wafted by the wind moves more lightly. Her silken robes rustle softly as she bends over and says, 'Will he never come?''

'Is it Kay you mean?' asked Gerda.

'I am only talking about my own story, my dream,' answered the convolvulus.

What said the little snowdrop?

'Between two trees a rope with a board is hanging; it is a swing. Two pretty little girls in snowy frocks and green ribbons fluttering on their hats are seated on it. Their brother, who is bigger than they are, stands up behind them; he has his arms round the ropes for supports, and holds in one hand a little bowl and in the other a clay pipe. He is blowing soap-bubbles. As the swing moves the bubbles fly upwards in all their changing colours, the last one still hangs from the pipe swayed by the wind, and the swing goes on. A little black dog runs up, he is almost as light as the bubbles, he stands up on his hind legs and wants to be taken into the swing, but it does not stop. The little dog falls with an angry bark; they jeer at it; the bubble bursts. A swinging plank, a fluttering foam picture—that is my story!'

'I daresay what you tell me is very pretty, but you speak so sadly and you never mention little Kay.'

What says the hyacinth?

'They were three beautiful sisters, all most delicate, and quite transparent. One wore a crimson robe, the other a blue, and the third was pure white. These three danced hand-in-hand, by the edge of the lake in the moonlight. They were human beings, not fairies of the wood. The fragrant air attracted them, and they vanished into the wood; here the fragrance was stronger still. Three coffins glide out of the wood towards the lake, and in them lie the maidens. The fire-flies flutter lightly round them with their little flickering torches. Do these dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The scent of the flower says that they are corpses. The evening bell tolls their knell.'

'You make me quite sad,' said little Gerda; 'your perfume is so strong it makes me think of those dead maidens. Oh, is little Kay really dead? The roses have been down underground, and they say no.'

'Ding, dong,' tolled the hyacinth bells; 'we are not tolling for little Kay; we know nothing about him. We sing our song, the only one we know.'

And Gerda went on to the buttercups shining among their dark green leaves.

'You are a bright little sun,' said Gerda. 'Tell me if you know where I shall find my playfellow.'

The buttercup shone brightly and returned Gerda's glance. What song could the buttercup sing? It would not be about Kay.

'God's bright sun shone into a little court on the first day of spring. The sunbeams stole down the neighbouring white wall, close to which bloomed the first yellow flower of the season; it shone like burnished gold in the sun. An old woman had brought her arm-chair out into the sun; her granddaughter, a poor and pretty little maid-servant, had come to pay her a short visit, and she kissed her. There was gold, heart's gold, in the kiss. Gold on the lips, gold on the ground, and gold above, in the early morning beams! Now that is my little story,' said the buttercup.

'Oh, my poor old grandmother!' sighed Gerda. 'She will be longing to see me, and grieving about me, as she did about Kay. But I shall soon go home again and take Kay with me. It is useless for me to ask the flowers about him. They only know their own stories, and have no information to give me.'

Then she tucked up her little dress, so that she might run the faster; but the narcissus blossoms struck her on the legs as she jumped over them, so she stopped and said, 'Perhaps you can tell me something.'

She stooped down close to the flower and listened. What did it say?

'I can see myself, I can see myself,' said the narcissus. 'Oh, how sweet is my scent. Up there in an attic window stands a little dancing girl half dressed; first she stands on one leg, then on the other, and looks as if she would tread the whole world under her feet. She is only a delusion. She pours some water out of a teapot on to a bit of stuff that she is holding; it is her bodice. "Cleanliness is a good thing," she says. Her white dress hangs on a peg; it has been washed in the teapot, too, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and wraps a saffron-coloured scarf round her neck, which makes the dress look whiter. See how high she carries her head, and all upon one stem. I see myself, I see myself!'

'I don't care a bit about all that,' said Gerda; 'it's no use telling me such stuff.'

And then she ran to the end of the garden. The door was fastened, but she pressed the rusty latch, and it gave way. The door sprang open, and little Gerda ran out with bare feet into the wide world. She looked back three times, but nobody came after her. At last she could run no further, and she sat down on a big stone. When she looked round she saw that the summer was over; it was quite late autumn. She would never have known it inside the beautiful garden, where the sun always shone, and the flowers of every season were always in bloom.

'Oh, how I have wasted my time,' said little Gerda. 'It is autumn. I must not rest any longer,' and she got up to go on.

Oh, how weary and sore were her little feet, and everything round looked so cold and dreary. The long willow leaves were quite yellow. The damp mist fell off the trees like rain, one leaf dropped after another from the trees, and only the sloe-thorn still bore its fruit; but the sloes were sour and set one's teeth on edge. Oh, how grey and sad it looked, out in the wide world.

Red shoes

2008-11-25T01:53:00.000-08:00

Image

Blood

2008-11-25T00:58:00.001-08:00

http://principiodeidentidad.blogspot.com/

Glossary online about sewing

2008-11-25T00:45:00.000-08:00

Glossary online about sewing

Sewing

2008-11-25T00:38:00.001-08:00

"Make It Yourself": Home Sewing, Gender, and Culture, 1890–1930 by Sarah A. Gordon

Wiskey lulaby, Brad Paisley

2008-11-23T10:02:00.000-08:00

Textiles from SE Asia

2008-11-23T08:35:00.001-08:00

Lakobou (Textile Atelier)
Producer Nakao Kenji
Yufuku

Juba (kimono) for sale

2008-11-18T07:06:00.001-08:00

Juban. Crèpe de seda rosaleda – J0001 Se trata de un juban (kimono interior) confeccionado en crèpe de seda con un bonito y discreto diseño con multitud de rosas. Es una prenda hecha en los años 60. Juban confeccionado en auténtico crèpe de seda. Medidas: Largo total: 124 cm. Ancho de manga a manga: 123 cm. Ancho de espalda: 60 cm. NOTAS: Presenta una pequeña mancha (ver fotografía) que no afecta en absoluto el uso de la prenda.

For sale

Noisettes, The count of Monte Christo

2008-11-18T03:01:00.001-08:00

Inserción desactivada. Listen

Geek T-shirt

2008-11-17T09:45:00.001-08:00

Link

Das Park Hotel

2008-11-17T09:26:00.001-08:00

Das Park Hotel see more

We the Free

2008-11-17T09:18:00.001-08:00

Visit them

Food cupboard

2008-11-16T04:14:00.001-08:00

Jam for tea

Hoops

2008-11-12T22:20:00.001-08:00

"Copper Lotus Flower Hoops"
At Les Chic

Restless sleepers, bed sheets

2008-11-11T10:00:00.001-08:00

Robert Morris, Restless Sleepers/Atomic Shroud, 1991.
Silkscreen on linen, 114 x 90". Created in collaboration
with The Fabric Workshop and Museum.

These ghostly and ominous bed sheets were created at The Fabric Workshop and Museum (FWM) at the height of the Cold War, during the Reagan years, when apocalyptic themes were central to Morris' work. At this time, the work produced at the FWM tended to focus on fabric and printing, rather than the broad array of alternative materials used here today. As a result, Morris produced a work distinctive from his other pieces, which are mostly sculptural. To create Restless Sleepers/Atomic Shroud, Morris painted a human skeleton with ink and rolled it on white fabric. The resulting skeleton prints were then assembled into an image that was screen-printed onto a bed sheet. These sheets are one of the most literal of his pieces exploring the theme of nuclear threat.

Fashionable felt

2008-11-11T09:45:00.001-08:00

Fashioning Felt

On view March 6–September 7, 2009
National Design Museum

This exhibition will explore the varied new uses of felt—an ancient material, believed to be one of the earliest techniques for making textiles. Made by matting together wool fibers with humidity and friction, felting requires little technological expertise and is an extremely versatile material. The exhibition will begin with historic examples of felts, showcase innovations in handmade felts, and feature contemporary uses of industrial felt in a range of fields, including product design, fashion, architecture, and home furnishings. The exhibition is being organized by Susan Brown, assistant curator, Textiles.

Chinesse benches

2008-11-11T09:26:00.001-08:00

AI Weiwei, Grapes, 2007.
Wooden stools, Qing-Dynasty (1644-1911).
79 x 137 x 160cm. Private Collection.

Hernández Pijoan, from Barcelona

2008-11-11T05:47:00.000-08:00

La morera, 1985
See more paintings by painter Hernández Pijoan

Soft stays

2008-11-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

The Antique Corset Gallery

Sold out

2008-11-01T08:10:00.000-07:00

Socks that fix

2008-11-01T01:46:00.000-07:00

Free knitting patterns at
http://www.knitlist.com/01gift/samanthas-fixation-socks.htm

Stairs

2008-10-24T05:04:00.000-07:00

(Leszek Zokowski / Stock Photo) :: Who would throw their good Italian shoes down the step on New Year's Eve? Ask an Italian.
http://www.happynews.com/news/12292005/throw-those-shoes-down-the-steps-on-.htm

Nuns

2008-10-22T04:14:00.000-07:00