Ella Rose Muse: the story: 2009

Wednesday, 30 December 2009

Glastonbury: Ice and Ivy

Last week I drove for hours on treacherous ice and snow to get to Glastonbury for a shoot with Ed Melville. Much of the journey was in first or second gear and there were times, during the way back, at which I thought I might never get home!! BUT it was worth the trip and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Ed wanted some Christmassy images with a 'pagan', natural theme, amongst other things. He'd gathered ivy and holly, and I fashioned myself a headdress.

We then went a little bit mediaeval/pre-Raphaelite. I'm really struggling to decide which to upload to my portfolio, so any help here onwards would be appreciated!!

Red and musical, featuring a Nordic lyre (which I could not resist twinging constantly, poor Ed):

Also, I now have these. I'm so sorry I'm bombarding readers of my blog with belly-dance pictures, but I'm having such a blast doing them...

Hope everyone had a wonderous, splendiferous Christmas. HAPPY NEW YEAR and love to all!

Thursday, 24 December 2009

Pure Magic!

Merry Christmas everyone!

May it be filled with magic, warmth and wonder.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

Tear sheets

... From the Berkeley Castle Charity shoot. This was to promote charity shops around Christmas time and publicise the wonderful work of the Cotswold Care Hospice (see my earlier blog entry). Recently delivered to my inbox by photographer Simon Walden:

Monday, 7 December 2009

Swish, Sway and Storm

Here are some recent shots from time spent with the wonderful, now Oxford-based, Mark Bigelow. We still have plenty more to do and I enjoyed it even more than the first time around. Mark even got to sample my terrible driving, which he was very polite about. For a spatially-aware person I am not very spatially aware.

The last one reminds me of the ocean - tumultuous/turbulent and moody (like all good oceans). I think the skirt (tied material) looks like liquid in some of the shots too.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Talk amongst yourselves

I absolutely love these two by Russ B, but I didn't even realise I even had them until the other day. The bluebells were amazing, weren't they?

I have so many bluebell images, from the woods near my house, and can remember exactly how it felt to be sitting there. :)

More timely images to follow just as soon as I get a chance to update things properly! Love to all! :)

Monday, 9 November 2009

Autumn in Oxfordshire...

...makes small dogs very happy.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

How it all began...

This AMAZING portrait, 'Profile', is a little slow in being uploaded. It's a painting by the wonderful painter Robbie Wraith. I'm very proud to have been the subject of his work for as long as I was, and hope to return to his studio some time in the future.

Longlisted for the Threadneedle Prize 2009, we were sadly robbed by judges who failed to see the genius... The Times obviously did though, as it was the one image they chose to print alongside an article about the prize!

Anyway, look closely - the man is very talented. :)

Another one, actually:

Belmont House

These were taken by Paul Viant at the beautiful Belmont House. Just some stock images - he wanted a massage/spa feel. It was a lovely day and I look forward to the next.

We also did some others.

Sunday, 11 October 2009

Berkeley Castle Charity Shoot

I had the opportunity to help out the Cotswold Care Hospice recently by taking part in a shoot designed to raise awareness of the Cotswold's charity shops in the run up to Christmas. I am hugely pro shopping in charity shops and love to think that the clothes and items I buy there have their own histories. I know some people can be squeamish about this kind of thing, but I would urge anyone to have a look and challenge them not to find something cool to buy!

The shoot took place in Berkeley Castle. I've shot there before and know how jaw-droppingly stunning a location it is, which kind of sealed the deal for me, as well as the fact that it was a chance to work with Simon Walden again. Simon did my second ever shoot so I was keen to show some improvement the second time around! He is a great character - full of energy and enthusiasm.

It was a fun day! From left to right: Marianne (Care Hospice), Simon, Ashley Williams (hair stylist), Marcus (Care Hospice and photographer), Emma, Kas, moi, Rob Golding (photographer), Kate Parker (stylist).

Some shots from the day:

And finally, part of the shoot was a mini Christmas party scene! It felt very bizarre doing this in early October, but somehow I've felt a bit Christmassy ever since. The table was very luxuriously dressed, but, sadly, the wine tasted of sprite..... Ah well. Cheers!!

Wednesday, 9 September 2009

Nick Atkins

I've just received some images from Nick Atkins, taken at Cheltenham Film Studios. Very generous of him!

Friday, 28 August 2009

Bleinheim

I had a very quick shoot in the lovely grounds of Bleinheim Palace recently with Michael (Voyages2004). He very kindly sent me a few images:

Hope you like them :)

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Walter De La Mare, 'The Listeners'

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Natasha Khan/Bat for Lashes, 'Horse and I'

Got woken in the night,
by a mystic golden light.
My head soaked in river water.
I had been dressed in a coat of armor. They called
a horse out of the woodland.
"Take her there, through the desert shores."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear.
You're the chosen one, there's no turning back now."

The smell of redwood giants.
The banquet for the shadows.
Horse and I, we're dancers in the dark.
Came upon the headdress.
It was gilded, dark and golden.
The children sang.
I was so afraid I took it to my head and prayed.
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."

Mark Doty, 'A Display of Mackerel'

They lie in parallel rows,

on ice, head to tail,

each a foot of luminosity

barred with black bands,

which divide the scales’

radiant sections

like seams of lead

in a Tiffany window.

Iridescent, watery

prismatics: think abalone,

the wildly rainbowed

mirror of a soapbubble sphere,

think sun on gasoline.

Splendor, and splendor,

and not a one in any way

distinguished from the other

—nothing about them

of individuality. Instead

they’re all exact expressions

of the one soul,

each a perfect fulfilment

of heaven’s template,

mackerel essence. As if,

after a lifetime arriving

at this enameling, the jeweler’s

made uncountable examples,

each as intricate

in its oily fabulation

as the one before

Suppose we could iridesce,

like these, and lose ourselves

entirely in the universe

of shimmer—would you want

to be yourself only,

unduplicatable, doomed

to be lost? They’d prefer,

plainly, to be flashing participants,

multitudinous. Even now

they seem to be bolting

forward, heedless of stasis.

They don’t care they’re dead

and nearly frozen,

just as, presumably,

they didn’t care that they were living:

all, all for all,

the rainbowed school

and its acres of brilliant classrooms,

in which no verb is singular,

or every one is. How happy they seem,

even on ice, to be together, selfless,

which is the price of gleaming.

Kate Clanchy, 'Poem for a Man with No Sense of Smell'

This is simply to inform you:

that the thickest line in the kink of my hand
smells like the feel of an old school desk,
the deep carved names worn sleek with sweat;

that beneath the spray of my expensive scent
my armpits sound a bass note strong
as the boom of a palm on a kettle drum;

that the wet flush of my fear is sharp
as the taste of an iron pipe, midwinter,
on a child's hot tongue; and that sometimes,

in a breeze, the delicate hairs on the nape
of my neck, just where you might bend
your head, might hesitate and brush your lips,

hold a scent frail and precise as a fleet
of tiny origami ships, just setting out to sea.

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