Ella Rose Muse: the story: Leaded Glass & English Roses

Sunday, 15 February 2015

Leaded Glass & English Roses

Ah, it's Sunday (day of rest, Radiohead & baklava... :-)). Time for a quick blog catch up, I think!!

I was lucky enough to have been chosen to model at the whimfully wonderful 'Oxford Conference of Corsetry', a global gathering of corsetiers and designers from all over the world. I ended up modelling for 8 (I think) different designers in one day, and had so much fun playing different characters (the designs were all so different - some classic and sensual' some playful and characterful). I'm proud to say I've been asked back for the next one, too, and the conference is growing year by year. I was also invited to the dinner the night before, held at Jesus College (the whole conference was held there: stunning! Harry Potter-esque, of course!), and listened to the after-dinner speaker, world renowned Autumn Adamme of Dark Garden Corsetry & Couture (a personal favourite of Dita Von Teese) who'd come from San Francisco to pour out her heart and soul, passing on tips and thoughts to inspire the attending designers.

All in all, it was an incredible experience to be involved with, especially considering I had had very limited experience with proper corsets before (don't get me wrong, I've worn a fair few, but mostly of the costume-department one-size-fits-all variety, for film work; certainly not so comfortable as these, which were made, albeit remotely, especially to fit my measurements; I feel really very honoured and surprised to have been specially chosen by the organisers!). I also felt afterwards that I was something of a convert; although I usually prefer to dress in a bohemian, flowing, loose-fitting manner, I can really see the allure and power in wearing such structure; it's also incredibly feminine and idyllic.

I'm posting here just one of the designs I wore (I'll show more gradually; edits are still coming my way) - the first of the day, made by Morua Corsetry & Couture. I really felt like a bit of a princess flouncing around in this beautiful smokey grey, jewelled corset (made especially for me to model, called 'Leaded Glass & English Roses'); all organza & net layers made with swarovski crystals and spray painted metal roses, and teamed with a sheer wrap for a skirt. Beautiful!!!! Definitely one of my favourites of the day.

You can read all about the process and shoot from the designer's point of view over here: it's a brilliant write up!

This corset was photographed by both of the official photographers, Scott Chalmers and Chris Murray, both of whom are extremely talented, and gave it a completely different air.

These are by Scott Chalmers (beautifully smokey and misty):

(Behind the scenes... :-))

And these are by Chris Murray (more clarity and freshness):

Days like these remind me how much I love my modelling job! :-)

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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Sunday, 15 February 2015

Leaded Glass & English Roses