Ella Rose Muse: the story: March 2015

Sunday, 29 March 2015

And now for something completely different...

The title makes sense when you take a look at these anomalies, two results from one of the most surreal shooting experiences of my life with Peter Kelly. I definitely hope I'll get to pose in his Python-esque playpen again next time I'm upside down (probably later this year).

Off to Paris tomorrow! :-)

Tuesday, 10 March 2015

Hourglasses: Ivory & Jade

...And here are two more from Adrian Spencer, which I almost forgot to show you. Here I am modelling Clessidra Couture... I modelled for these soon after darkening my hair a bit - it's faded slightly now, but is similar...

I can't even begin to describe how 'all over the place' in a good way I am at the moment, so I am really really sorry if things get slightly quiet here from time to time - my life is going in several directions at once. It's very exciting! Meanwhile, the shoots that I'm doing at the moment are producing work that cannot be blogged, so I suppose my standards here may be slipping. But hey, as mentioned in my last post in more detail, I'll write more over HERE in between my more image-tastic updates. :-)

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Boho Bride in Oxford Times... AND MY BRAND NEW PERSONAL WEBSITE!

I'm in the Oxford Times today, as part of a limited edition 'Boho Bride' feature, modelling Clessidra Couture, photographed by Adrian Spencer (with make up by Shameem Kumar and flowers by 'Budd's Flowers by Design'). We got some really gorgeous images that day! Glad to see I'm championing whimsical, fairytale weddings in my hometown! :-)

In other news, could I please ask you all to step over to my brand new website:

>>>>>>>CLICK HERE<<<<<<<

I'll be blogging there regularly with tidbits, extracts and ponderings from my life and my writing research. Yep, this is the place to be if you happen to like my writing style and want to pay attention to my gatherings of eclectic musings and accompany me on my hopeful meanderings towards authorship...

This will remain my modelling blog, of course, but the new place (link above) is an additional, deeper collection of words and thoughts, so will, I hope, more than fill in the gaps between the image-filled posts I publish over here.

I am also newly found on >>>>>>>TWITTER<<<<<<<, where I am currently a bit lonesome (and still figuring out how exactly to use it!!), so why not follow me there too and show me some love? :-)

As you can see, I'm distilling a particular part of myself (the writerly part) into a separate patch of the online world to give it more focus, and really enjoying being proactive. On the website, which will function mainly as a blog, you can expect words and thoughts on all manner of things, from God, love, online dating to homelessness, maths and chickens - all my behind the scenes nonsense which flits through my brain as I research the novel I'm writing (which is described, sort of, over on the website), as well as the odd excerpt from my current work in progress. It's all going to gain momentum quite quickly, I think, and is going to be quite fun! All are welcome and your encouragement genuinely means a lot.

Thank you all very much - I really do appreciate the support!

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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.