Ideal house


Danchi hutch by Japanese architect Yoshihiro Yamamoto. Simplicity, simplicity…

Danchi-Hutch-by-YYAA_2sq Danchi-Hutch-by-YYAA_3sq Danchi-Hutch-by-YYAA_4 Danchi-Hutch-by-YYAA_5 Danchi-Hutch-by-YYAA_6

Red and black

Shots taken at some botanical garden in Paris, guess it’s something like a piece of prehistoric wood that over the years changed it’s structure to almost marble-like.

Rhyme again

Chanel feather headdress, Irving Penn, New York, 1994


Thistle Preliminary course under Johannes Itten Bauhaus Weimar, 1921 26.5×37 cm Private collection

Three flowers

Looking at these photos it’s strange to know that these are actually flowers – three different sorts of tulips. I like the abstract quality of these images, the petals look like swirls and splashes of some ‘substance’ – there’s nothing sweet or pretty about them. Writing this I just remembered a certain passage from ‘Au rebours’ where Des Essaints muses about his  love for the plants that don’t look like ‘real’ plants – ‘His purpose was achieved. Not one single specimen seemed real; the cloth, paper, porcelain and metal seemed to have been loaned by man to nature to enable her to create her monstrosities. When unable to imitate man’s handiwork, nature had been reduced to copying the inner membranes of animals, to borrowing the vivid tints of their rotting flesh, their magnificent corruptions.’

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

‘Mad girl’s love song’ – a poem by Sylvia Plath:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

the way I like it – ‘Blue velvet’ opening credits along with the page from Russian Vogue’03 (kind of an opening credits for the fashion ed)

if only it was real – just imagine what a texture combination – deep-blue crushed velvet against the thin white coated paper. fonts also fit nicely to my taste)

We use the pain

For a long time now ritual scarification has been used as an initiation rite. One have to endure pain  in order to become a full member of society. In this case marks on the body are an evidence of strength and self-discipline. At the same time for these people making scars on the body is the way to beautify themselves. Also, there is an observation that scarification has been most-used among equatorial nations because it would be difficult to see a tattoo on a dark skin. So we could see that all these cultural/religious matters are closely entwined with the different aesthetic principles making the subject of ritual scarification so interesting and complex – I really wish I had a deeper knowledge of it.

On a side note – when searching for the images I just found out that Louis Vuitton once made a bag inspired by the African rituals of scarification. Maybe it’s just me being snobbish and all but somehow for me it seems to be so wrong that such sophisticated and controversial concept has been used to produce just another logo-stamped luxury bag.

Let it come with all its horrors

I just remembered a book I read a few years ago when doing a research for my graduate collection. It’s a novel by swedish writer Karin Boye called ‘Kallocain’. Of all the things I read and watched back then this one perhaps made the strongest impression on me. Two and a half years ago I quoted in my sketchbook:

“I have wondered for years where that place might be. If we will reach it after we have devoured our neighbor-state, or the neighbor-state has devoured us? Will roads then spring up as easily between human beings as they grow between cities and districts? Let it come soon then! Let it come – come with all its horrors! Or wouldn’t even that be enough? Will the armored tank have grown so strong before that time that it no longer can be transformed from a god into a tool? Can ever a god, even if he is the deadest of all gods, surrender his power voluntarily? – I wanted so to believe there was a green depth in the human being, a sea of undefiled growing-power that melted all dead remnants in its crucible and healed and created in eternity. . . .  But I have not seen it. What I do know is that by sick parents and sick teachers still sicker children are being brought up, until the sick has now become the norm and the healthy a horror. From lone beings are born even lonelier, from the frightened come more frightened ones. . . .  Where might even one seed of health be hiding away, that could grow and burst through the armor? . . .  Those poor people whom we called lunatics played with their symbols. It was at least something, at least they knew there was something they missed. As long as they knew what they were doing at least something was left. But it doesn’t lead anywhere! Where can anything lead! If I should shout at a Metro station when the multitudes emerge, or at a great festival with a loudspeaker in front of me – yet my shouts would only reach a few eardrums in the million-mile Worldstate, and would bounce back as a vacuous sound. I am a cog. I am a being who has been robbed of life. . . . And yet: just now I know it is not the truth. It must be the Kallocain, I guess, that makes me unreasonably hopeful – everything seems easy and clear and peaceful. I am still alive – in spite of all they have robbed me of – and just     now I know that what I am goes somewhere. I have seen the powers of death spread through the world in ever widening waves – but then must not the powers of life also have their waves, even though I have been unable to discern them? . . .  Oh well – I know it is the effect of the Kallocain, but even so – why couldn’t it be the truth?”


re-reading (and not for the first time) ‘Pattern recognition’:

‘ CPUs. Cayce Pollard Units. That’s what Damien calls the clothing she wears. CPUs are either black, white, or gray, and ideally seem to have come into this world without human intervention.

What people take for relentless minimalism is a side effect of too much exposure to the reactor-cores of fashion. This has resulted in a remorseless paring-down of what she can and will wear. She is, literally, allergic to fashion. She can only tolerate things that could have been worn, to a general lack of comment, during any year between 1945 and 2000. She’s a design-free zone, a one-woman school of anti whose very austerity periodically threatens to spawn its own cult.’

I know I have an enemy

‘Somewhere in the world I have an implacable enemy although I do not know his name. I do not know what he looks like either…

The fact that I know absolutely nothing about him makes life intolerable, for  I am obliged to look upon everybody with equal suspicion. There is literally not a soul whom I can trust. As the days go past I find that I am becoming more and more preoccupied with this wretched problem; indeed, it has become an obsession with me. Whenever I speak to anyone I catch myself scrutinizing him with secret attention, searching for some sign that would betray the traitor who is determined to ruin me. I cannot concentrate on my work because I am always debating in my mind the question of my enemy’s identity and the cause of his hate. What act of mine can possibly have given rise to such a relentless persecution? I go over and over my past life without finding any clue. But perhaps the situation has arisen through no fault of my own but merely on account of some fortuitous circumstances that I know nothing about. Perhaps I am the victim of some mysterious political, religious or financial machination – some vast and shadowy plot, whose ramifications are so obscure as to appear to the uninitiated to be quite outside reason, requiring, for instance, something as apparently senseless as the destruction of everybody with red hair or with a mole on his left leg.

Because of this persecution my private life is already practically in ruins. My friends and family are alienated, my creative work is at a standstill, my manner has become nervous, gloomy and irritable, I am unsure of myself, even my voice has grown hesitating and indistinct.

You would think that my enemy might take pity on me now; that, seeing the miserable plight to which he has reduced me, he would be content with his vengeance and leave me in peace. But no, I know perfectly well that he will never relent. He will never be satisfied until he has destroyed me utterly…

…I am only writing this down so that when you do not see me any more you will know that my enemy has finally triumphed.’

fragments of ‘The Enemy’ from ‘Asylum piece’ by Anna Kavan

Basic shapes & systematic forms

‘Crystalline form, sphere, plane, rod and strip, screw and cone, those are the basic technical shapes of the whole world. These are enough for all events of the whole world process, to lead  them to their optimum. All things that exists are combinations of these seven primal forms, but never more than the holy number seven. Nature has produced nothing else, and the human spirit may do whatever it wants, but it will always only result in combinations and variations of these seven basic shapes.’

‘… for every thing, whether it is an object or a thought, there is only one systematic form that corresponds to the essence of the thing and which, if it is changed does not cause the position of repose, but which causes processes. These processes work compulsively, systematically by continually renewed disruption of form, until the optimal, essential position of repose has again been reached and form and essence are again one.’

Laszlo Moholy-Nagy

Flying city

‘Flying city’, russian architect Georgy Krutikov’s graduate project, 1928.

It reminds me of the Soviet science fiction 0f 30s-40s ( esp. Belyaev’s ‘Jump into the void’), Zamyatin’s dystopia ‘We’ and Svift’s the flying island of Laputa. But most of all I like the boldness of ‘the flying city’ project – to think of such things when even simple air flight was a huge risk.


Stills from amateur low-quality videos of chemical experiments, which I found on youtube. Insanely beautiful.

I’m trying to learn french now and since for me this blog is a chance to practice my language skills I will post some keywords in french in order to expand my vocabulary.

/Chimie, expérience, flamme, couleur, fumée, vidéo, image, briller, de rose, aveuglant, de couleurs variées

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