Ella Rose Muse: the story: Fairy

Showing posts with label Fairy. Show all posts

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!

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

Fee Tree

Well, Italy was amazing. Utterly Italy-ish. Rolling orange hills, chickens, a LOT of granita (Sicilian Spirit, lemon, mint, peach...), grapes plucked from vineyards, Botticelli and Titian - I can't get enough of wandering around in wonder at the talent, myth and stories in the Uffizi Gallery. And Michaelangelo's David (in the Accademia) really is a sight to behold (is it weird to fancy a sculpture? Hmm). I really must go to Italy again as soon as possible.

In other news, I am now gearing up for my trip to Vietnam, Australia, Japan and Bali. I leave in a couple of weeks! So much to organise it's insane. It will be an amazing trip. Email me at ellarosemuse@live.co.uk for details!

Anyway, update time, and the following shots were taken in the south of Germany a couple of months ago. I stayed with Peter Gruener and worked with different photographers over two days for this part of the trip (I've included links on the first instance of each photographer being credited). We had a good time, despite heat and mosquitos, and I really love some of the images below. Thanks photographers!

Saturday, 22 June 2013

A Horse, a Cosmic Skirt, Mints & Buttercups

I was going to serve up some mountainous goodness next, but instead, I have been distracted by yesterday's longest day-ness, such that I'm going to quickly squeeze in a few sunny shots from a recent leisurely afternoon spent once more with Karen Jones. We've worked together many times (and will be doing so again soon), and she's another photographer who's great at coming up with different ideas each time, throwing new props at me and even letting me pose with a horse again (this time it was the rather pretty-headed Joss, who Karen's husband kept reminding me was 'just a big dog'.). Joss loves mints. And grass. :-) I was at the same time having serious befuddlement over whether or not to keep a recent purchase, my 'cosmic skirt' (so called, obviously, because it has planets and stars on it, as all good skirts must..), so I thought I'd put it on and see how it photographs for some gypsy bohemia, avec a bunch of Karen's lavender (and then I thought I'd imagine how that might translate to some hot beach somewhere someday..). We then found a little moss-covered nymph perch, for which Karen covered my head in a wreath of rose buds for a few quick shots... And then, it would have seemed a real shame not to dunk ourselves amidst a field swimming in buttercups.

Any favourites?

Now, today, I WILL master my plans for Iceland and Germany next month. I will I will I will.

Monday, 19 November 2012

A-flitting and a-fluttering

I loooove these new shots from Brian (Martinphoto), taken up in Fife earlier this year. Brian had been feeling really unwell in the days beforehand but heroically endured the prospect of shooting with me nevertheless, instead of cancelling last minute, and we ended up having lots and lots of fun in the local camera club studio, despite the flu-induced lack of game plan!

Today's excuse for posting so many images is my theory that if you scroll down the page really really fast and perhaps squint your eyes a bit to add to the already-very-cool effect of flash + slow shutter = movement blur, you can watch a little fairy/angel dance! ;-)

Also, I've had a few emails before asking me about this skirt - it's one of my bellydance skirts that I customised, perfect for sheer delicate movement and swishing!

...And the 'ta da!' finish!

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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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