An Artist
"What does it mean "to write well"?
An artist--using the word in its genuine rather than childish meaning-is not a craftsman who knows how to evenly distribute "lively images", "telling details of everyday life", "colorful landscapes", and other trifles in his books; an artist is the one who finds a rhythm unknown before, and enlives and permeates the world he has created by this rhythm."
-Nabokov
With her long, wobbly legs Nancy ran into the ruined manse, Spanish moss and entwining ivy dripping from its walls still white, still strong, falling up the broken stairs, cracks as wide as hell's gate upon its date with destiny doom'd. She tore open the parlor door where the huge painting still hung in the same place when last Nancy visited her maiden, her muse, her mirror that cast its web and shadow like some kind of antique silk loom when enlaced in Alencon the witch would take her out of doom but now she was cast in greasepaint brushed by the stroke of Jealousy. "I hate you!" screamed Nancy at the top of her lungs like the painting could actually hear her misery. "I cannot live without you, Natalia, why do you torment me so!?" Nancy threw one of her 5 inch high heel ankle booties at the hanging picture on the torn, sun-stained, air-starved wallpaper. It banged a loud thud against the hard canvas, marking a spot upon the hand of the mademoiselle that touched her bare right shoulder as if surrendering. Nancy gasped, then hushed, then, softly she wept and fell upon her knees in hopeless despair.
So I really dig this look, your work with this photographer is unlike anything I've seen shot of you, and I like it, though it's a bit shocking.. at first I was almost convinced it wasn't you ;-p
I love the strong, predatory feel this image excudes.
ReplyDeleteWith her long, wobbly legs Nancy ran into the ruined manse, Spanish moss and entwining ivy dripping from its walls still white, still strong, falling up the broken stairs, cracks as wide as hell's gate upon its date with destiny doom'd. She tore open the parlor door where the huge painting still hung in the same place when last Nancy visited her maiden, her muse, her mirror that cast its web and shadow like some kind of antique silk loom when enlaced in Alencon the witch would take her out of doom but now she was cast in greasepaint brushed by the stroke of Jealousy. "I hate you!" screamed Nancy at the top of her lungs like the painting could actually hear her misery. "I cannot live without you, Natalia, why do you torment me so!?" Nancy threw one of her 5 inch high heel ankle booties at the hanging picture on the torn, sun-stained, air-starved wallpaper. It banged a loud thud against the hard canvas, marking a spot upon the hand of the mademoiselle that touched her bare right shoulder as if surrendering. Nancy gasped, then hushed, then, softly she wept and fell upon her knees in hopeless despair.
ReplyDeleteYou look GORGEOUS in that makeup
ReplyDeleteSo I really dig this look, your work with this photographer is unlike anything I've seen shot of you, and I like it, though it's a bit shocking.. at first I was almost convinced it wasn't you ;-p
ReplyDelete