Ella Rose Muse: the story: Classical

Showing posts with label Classical. Show all posts

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Fruit, Fog & Romantic Pleasure...

Until quite recently I'd never posed alongside a male model except for during fully-clothed commercial/wedding work. The idea of doing nudes had vaguely interested me on and off, but I was intrigued by the possibility of doing so without creating a body of work which is overly sexual or, well, porny. Having looked around for inspiration in the world of photography I found surprisingly little that inspired me - there's a lot of modern erotica, some of which is beautifully done, but very little which is more classical, like the kind of thing you'd see in the work of certain painters or sculptors (obviously there is also plenty of explicit erotica in any medium, old or new, but I was looking for something else). I began to see it as a challenge...

I wanted to see if I could create something sensual, loving and intimate without being too erotic; depicting pure love and romantic pleasure, desire and playfulness... all while still keeping a mood of innocence. And yes, the line is so fine in part because it is so vague and perhaps dissolves completely on too much consideration.

Having been in touch for a while with Joel Hicks (who currently stars in the brilliant Harpic ad on TV, amongst many other things), we decided to see if we could find a photographer who might be interested in shooting us together. I asked ManCave, who I'd shot with twice before, if he was interested; and he was, so we made a plan. I waffled looong involved theories (about love versus lust, etc. etc.) at them both, and I couldn't be happier with the results! ManCave planned these classical sets and arranged everything beautifully, and Joel was absolutely perfect in both looks and professionalism. His facebook page is here, and is well worth a 'like' in my humble opinion; he's inspiring both within and without his modelling work, and competent male models are massively under-hired in the freelance world.

Anyway, to the images....

Quick plug: We think we worked quite well together and make quite a good combination, so just in case anyone is interested in booking us as a duo this summer, possibly in a beautiful outdoor location (Joel happens to live on a 13 acre plot in the Midlands, which incorporates a fully-equipped studio as well as the lake, ponds, stables and wood), please let me know. I'll be available to model there alone or along with Joel, for commercial/wedding images, classical or a mix. The opportunities there mean some really amazing images could be made, and as a photographer himself, Joel is also able to mentor any beginners.

Thanks for looking!

Monday, 30 September 2013

Earth Blood

I'm just about ready-ish for my imminent far-flinging-of-self to outward geographical extremities, from Kuala to koala, with some rice paddies, dragon-formed island cliffs, yoga classes & treehouse bars, 'old quarters' and kaleidoscopic underwater creature-greeting in between. I'm getting those last minute heebyjeebies, of course (well, they've been creeping up for a while..), but I'm used to that and I know things always tend to work out once you're there. It's hard to tear myself away from home, but hard not to! Adventures are calling.

I'll be back sometime before Christmas (I'm not currently sure exactly when), and am now taking bookings for January. (Also, just to note, I'm keeping a list of photographers who've asked me to contact them to let them know when I'm back, in case we can fit something in before the end of the year. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to that list. My email address is ellarosemuse@live.co.uk.)

A final update before I go:

Modelling for the extremely talented 19-year-old woman that is Katie Eleanor was a pleasure. I had a quick jaunt to Hampstead Heath on a recent Saturday, to cavort with papier maché toadstools and have paper cut-out moths stuck to my body, before meeting friends in a Caribbean bar staged in an old shipping container in Shoreditch.

Katie is such an exciting, passionately creative person, and her style and penchant for whimsy and ethereal confusion and myth, stories and (tainted) nature is right up my street.

These were shot on film, then painted by hand afterwards. I think they're a bit Victorian looking; a grown up flower fairy minus the flowers? I'm excited about following her work and seeing what she does next!

Monday, 23 September 2013

Norwegian Black - On an Island

Memories of this trip include lighthouses, rocks, funny Norwegian pancakes, beaches, sculptures, sub-sea tunnels and outdoor cats. We had a very productive four days, and so I will endeavour to divide the results into more than one blog post. I love so many. This selection, the 'indoor' side of things, was mostly taken while listening to Alicia Keys and Mark Knopfler's brilliant Privateering.

A huge thank you to the multi-talented Sjur Roald, whose hospitality, too, was fantastic.

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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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