Memoirs of spring... with the help of a lomo
Saturday, 27 November 2010
Western ways
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Picture by Leila Berney
Woke up to sleet this morning – facing this weather totting an omelette and a cup of English tea blend with no real desire to join my partners fight the bloody drunken battles, but I do. Watching modern westerns would do me just fine instead.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Monday, 22 November 2010
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Analogue love
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| Thirza Schaap |
Amsterdam's first photography museum, Huis Marseille will be hosting Digital? Analogue! - a group exhibition aimed at paying homage to renowned photographic printer Peter Svensson.
Digital? Analogue! will take place from 27 Nov - 27 Dec 2010.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Flavours of India
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| Naan bread and lamb accompaniment |
Connecting reserving a table to dining at the then three star Eastern Boulevard Holiday Inn restaurant in Cape Town in the late 80s was second nature until watching Date Night earlier this year.
Seeing that this was my first restaurant reservation – I wanted to do it just right. So after practicing my lines, I picked up my receiver and without any hesitation dialled the number and made a reservation for two people, at exactly 6.30pm that very evening.
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Romance
"Romance is about the possibility of things. You see, it's about the time between when you first meet some fine ass woman and when you first make love to her. And when you first ask a woman to marry you, and when she says, "I do". When people that have been together for a long time say the romance is gone... hmmhmm. What they're really saying is that they've exhausted the possibility." -- Darius Lovehall, Love Jones
Monday, 15 November 2010
Friday, 12 November 2010
Friday's fascination
Obsessing over:
Olivia Bee photographs, again;
wrap variations;
and, Quadron's simple version of a favourite Michael Jackson track.
Olivia Bee photographs, again;
wrap variations;
and, Quadron's simple version of a favourite Michael Jackson track.
Sally the Serial Sorry Sayer
For the very first time in such a long time Sally-the-serial-sorry-sayer found insincerity in her routine saying: “sorry”. During the seven years shared with Steve in the suburb of Saxonwold, sentences usually started with her uttering her winning slogan: “I’m sorry”, and sometimes, “I’m so so sorry Stevie.”
As per usual, saying sorry typically slipped out of Sally’s hung-over face the next morning she and her faithful Steve had a squabble which lead to her smoking a spliff on the street corner then storming off to the pub –with Steve seven minutes in tow. When at the bar, in full view of spectators, Sally would cause a scene while an embarrassed Steve stared at Sally in disappointment. Unashamedly and just to stir up anger inside Steve, Sally seductively swayed her hips, flirted and stroked the side, stomach and groin of any single or taken man who showed interest in Sally. After all their years of marriage, Sally’s habitual stunts didn’t make Steve envious, or even sad – instead, this was generally Steve’s cue to climb back into his silver sedan and drive up Jan Smuts, right back to Saxonwold.
For the last seven years, both Steven and Sally knew that her uttering a meagre apology in that annoying soprano voice of hers, accompanied by her very best soft sorrowful eyes, would be satisfactory enough for Steve to feel sorry for his little Sally; and sympathetically respond with giving her a squeeze so hard it made her think he was trying to suffocate her.
Slithering back into their sunlit garden, subconsciously Sally-the-serial-sorry-sayer knew that on this particular Sunday morning, saying sorry to her forgiving spouse would not suffice for her spiteful actions last night. Guilt-stricken with vague memories of Saturday evening, Sally softly closed the front door behind her, stumbled in the hallway and shouted for Steve to come down from his study for a serious sit-down. Swollen in the face from last night’s endeavours, Sally felt ashamed that she let things slip out of hand the way in which they did. The words “I am sorry” could hardly justify spreading her legs for a complete stranger while Steve lay fast asleep in the master bedroom.
As Steve stepped downstairs with a serious expression on his face, Sally felt a surreal bout of sadness overwhelm her body. Tears slowly seeped from her hideous face as her sober spouse stared down at her from the spiral staircase. Surprised to see his wife sob for the first time since the suicide of her sister six years prior, Steve could only but spread his arms and smother Sally. As she rested in his warm soft embrace, a strange sensation had sporadically come over her body which forced her – this time – to squeeze the life out of Steve. As Steve squealed and searched for air, Sally continued to suffocate and strangle him until he lay spiritless on the hard floor surface.
Like a serpent out of shallow still waters, Sally looked down at her lifeless spouse, and just like that – without any control over what came out of her mouth – stuttered her favourite saying, “I’m sorry.”
As per usual, saying sorry typically slipped out of Sally’s hung-over face the next morning she and her faithful Steve had a squabble which lead to her smoking a spliff on the street corner then storming off to the pub –with Steve seven minutes in tow. When at the bar, in full view of spectators, Sally would cause a scene while an embarrassed Steve stared at Sally in disappointment. Unashamedly and just to stir up anger inside Steve, Sally seductively swayed her hips, flirted and stroked the side, stomach and groin of any single or taken man who showed interest in Sally. After all their years of marriage, Sally’s habitual stunts didn’t make Steve envious, or even sad – instead, this was generally Steve’s cue to climb back into his silver sedan and drive up Jan Smuts, right back to Saxonwold.
For the last seven years, both Steven and Sally knew that her uttering a meagre apology in that annoying soprano voice of hers, accompanied by her very best soft sorrowful eyes, would be satisfactory enough for Steve to feel sorry for his little Sally; and sympathetically respond with giving her a squeeze so hard it made her think he was trying to suffocate her.
Slithering back into their sunlit garden, subconsciously Sally-the-serial-sorry-sayer knew that on this particular Sunday morning, saying sorry to her forgiving spouse would not suffice for her spiteful actions last night. Guilt-stricken with vague memories of Saturday evening, Sally softly closed the front door behind her, stumbled in the hallway and shouted for Steve to come down from his study for a serious sit-down. Swollen in the face from last night’s endeavours, Sally felt ashamed that she let things slip out of hand the way in which they did. The words “I am sorry” could hardly justify spreading her legs for a complete stranger while Steve lay fast asleep in the master bedroom.
As Steve stepped downstairs with a serious expression on his face, Sally felt a surreal bout of sadness overwhelm her body. Tears slowly seeped from her hideous face as her sober spouse stared down at her from the spiral staircase. Surprised to see his wife sob for the first time since the suicide of her sister six years prior, Steve could only but spread his arms and smother Sally. As she rested in his warm soft embrace, a strange sensation had sporadically come over her body which forced her – this time – to squeeze the life out of Steve. As Steve squealed and searched for air, Sally continued to suffocate and strangle him until he lay spiritless on the hard floor surface.
Like a serpent out of shallow still waters, Sally looked down at her lifeless spouse, and just like that – without any control over what came out of her mouth – stuttered her favourite saying, “I’m sorry.”
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Foodish behaviour.
Ever since joining Snappetite this year - food photography has become very alluring.
Article: 7 Tips for Aspiring Food Pornographers
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Level*
You wrote our names down on the sidewalk. The rain came and washed 'em off. So we should write 'em again on wet cement, so maybe people a long time from now will know what we meant. - The Raconteurs
*
Monday, 8 November 2010
Thrift stores II
There's nothing more satisfying than getting lost in a good old dusty squalid thrift store in the unsavoury part of town. The part of town known to be shopping heaven to only the dirt poor or those brave enough to venture in search of diamonds in the rough. Places so rough and mingy that imaging the garment on you will suffice because trying it on is, well, very fucking risky.
I haven't found that in the Netherlands (yet) but Joburg is a beautiful mine for such treasures.
Nonetheless, meet Lodekka...
I haven't found that in the Netherlands (yet) but Joburg is a beautiful mine for such treasures.
Nonetheless, meet Lodekka...
Melvin.
A great analogue invention and a pretty video from design duo HEYHEYHEY which I saw at Dutch Design Week 2010
Dutch Design Week 2010
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| Sprookjes NV Leo Coolen, Sprookjes NV |
Elly and I casually approached the same old central station to wait for a friend travelling into the city at the usual waiting spot. Naturally of course, out of routine, we expected to see a sea of regulars, as not too many people in Eindhoven care to break the appearance a.k.a monoculture mould and venture into what some like to term: freak mode. However, this rainy Friday afternoon brought a whiff of difference to the city’s air.
As the two of us anxiously walked into the building, a sudden rush of ‘arty’, ‘hipster’ or even ‘indie-like’ people – who ironically created a homogenous-like mould strong enough to distinguish them from the locals – streamed out of different trains, paced in our direction, marched straight pass us and then magically disappeared into the city, leaving a stench of wonder all over our clothes.
The peculiarity of that grey day in the station went as far as witnessing an assorted bunch of people, squeezed into a 20 by 20 metre demarcated area, gyrating to the sound of, well, nothing really – until we realised they had white headphones shoved into their ears and were having a private silent disco, without inviting. Ah but alas, there is nothing more comforting than having a go at a group of people making asses out of themselves. I was envious. Elly was too. We wanted to be in the know and most importantly, we wanted in on the silent disco.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Poem
Rules and Regulations - Lewis Carrol
A short direction
To avoid dejection,
By variations
In occupations,
And prolongation
Of relaxation,
And combinations
Of recreations,
And disputation
On the state of the nation
In adaptation
To your station,
By invitations
To friends and relations,
By evitation
Of amputation,
By permutation
In conversation,
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.
Learn well your grammar,
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly,
Be enterprising,
Love early rising,
Go walk of six miles,
Have ready quick smiles,
With lightsome laughter,
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee;
Never eat toffy.
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.
A short direction
To avoid dejection,
By variations
In occupations,
And prolongation
Of relaxation,
And combinations
Of recreations,
And disputation
On the state of the nation
In adaptation
To your station,
By invitations
To friends and relations,
By evitation
Of amputation,
By permutation
In conversation,
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.
Learn well your grammar,
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly,
Be enterprising,
Love early rising,
Go walk of six miles,
Have ready quick smiles,
With lightsome laughter,
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee;
Never eat toffy.
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Tuesday's tale II
The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out at the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave a little sigh & said, - Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.
- James Joyce, Dubliners
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