Ella Rose Muse: the story: October 2014

Monday, 27 October 2014

“A certain darkness is needed to see the stars."

They slipped
briskly
into an intimacy
from which they
never recovered
~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

Images by Luc Bollen (from a lovely little shoot in Brussels):

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Scandinavia

After this and this, I have another batch of images from Norway to show today!

These are more experimental, indoor (well, some are, and to be inside was a bit of a relief after all that mermaid-ing about in arctic winds, as thrilling as that was) and many of them, in my opinion, really capture the cool, glowy fresh light you get in Scandinavia.

by Mads Erik Husdal:

By Lars Andreas Dybvik:

(a couple of 'behind the scenes' scenes first!)

and by Hakon Gronning:

I'm off to Venice tomorrow, having got back from Vienna a couple of days ago. What a ridiculously exciting time it's been, modelling at full throttle. I'm already taking bookings for next year (having taken one for August a little while ago already), and would urge anyone wishing to reserve some time with me in the UK or beyond to get in touch and start making arrangements. I'll take just a few more bookings for this winter (November - Jan) - you can get in touch via www.ellarosemuse.co.uk.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

Sunday Medley

A medley of different images for this turn-the-heater-on Sunday.

I've been packing for Vienna and getting seriously excited about certain upcoming gallavants (came across this the other day which made me smile.. quite drastic!), while feeling all nostalgic in front of Jurassic Park, etc. (I think I know every scene of that film). Had a fun studio shoot yesterday - the first to show off my new hair colour (I accidentally walked into a hair salon as I fancied a change!). Tonight I'm back on Downton Abbey watch, though I fear they're going to take blimmin' ages to unveil the war memorial (one of the scenes I'm in).

(By Ken Pegg)

(By Max Operandi)

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Arbroath - Tayport

Always nice to shoot with Jim Furness, whose multi-camera set-up allows for some landscapes extraordinaires!

These were taken in Scotland the other day, including a place called 'The Devil's Head' (or 'the deil's heid'):

I suggested this spot in the image below as it seemed to me like I'm at the top of a cracked earth; Jim's clever fish eye makes it extra odd:

And, to finish, we got a lift in a yacht, so that I could do (a version of) my Kate Winslet impression. Thankfully I managed to stay upright-ish, clinging on in the wind:

... All in a day's work. :-)

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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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