Ella Rose Muse: the story: Lingerie

Showing posts with label Lingerie. Show all posts

Saturday, 10 August 2013

Tuition with Stefano Brunesci

I was asked by Stefano Brunesci to model for another tuition session back in March. The attending photographer was Chris Sinn, who wanted to learn a thing or two about Stefano's methods and style (he wrote on his blog afterwards, as part of a lovely write up of the day: 'there is just something about his lighting and style that makes me drop my bacon sandwich and inspires me to do better'!)

Stefano is a great teacher, not least because he is completely and utterly honest about what he does and how he does it, from lighting (he does achieve a lot in such a compact home studio!) to interaction with the subject. From a model's point of view, I can say that Stefano is really, really great at encouragement - VERY vocal while shooting, which helps a lot and also goes a long way towards setting the particular mood that he tends to go for. His shooting tends to be quite fast-paced, so there is less 'Pose. Click. Pose. Click' (though there's nothing wrong with that, and in general I can often be quite a 'deliberate' poser) and more 'let's just go a bit crazy in front of the camera without stopping', which results more in the kind of energy of image you'll see below.

First, I'll show some shots by Chris, who I thought did very well and is a great photographer himself.

Here's one Stefano took as a demo shot during the tuition, to show one of the lighting set ups:

And after Chris had gone, Stefano and I did a quick mini-shoot ourselves for fun. I do mean quick - these were taken in ten minutes:

(Embarrassing outtake....)

... Any favourites?

Monday, 3 June 2013

Greens and Lilacs

Just a fleeting 'hello' from me this fine Monday evening, with some images taken by Richard Maxim at Nic Marchant's studio in Duxford, Cambridge, recently. We did a good mix of stuff! I've been packing for Switzerland today as well as deciding on my route for Australia. Can't wait (for both!)!

Thursday, 18 April 2013

SWPP Annual Convention - Hilton London Metropole

I've modelled for Faye and Trevor Yerbury on quite a few occasions now, and it was lovely to be asked to be their masterclass model on two days in January during the annual SWPP convention, held at the Hilton London Metropole Hotel, in the Presidential Suite, no less!

On one day, the theme was Portraits (and also featured two young girls who made great 'little sisters' for met!), and on the other day, the focus was boudoir/nude. I've been sent a few shots from some of the attending photographers, so have some to show here, which is nice!

As always, I had a great time modelling for this creative and talented pair - they really do know their stuff. I'll be posing for them again in May, during my jaunt to Scotland (4th-14th), which I'm sure will be a great experience, working with them on their 'own turf'! :-)

No strangers to travel, they teach, demonstrate and lecture all over the place - you can keep up with their latest comings and goings via their website, if you think you'd like some tuition of some sort: http://www.yerburystudio.com/

Below are some of the images I've been sent:

These were taken by Manes Pangalos, from Athens:

The above wig utterly confused certain members of the group; I reappeared after a quick change and caused bafflement over where the 'other' model had gone! It does make quite a difference, doesn't it...

A portrait taken by Jane Cox:

More boudoir, by Steve Murray:

And another from Tony Cashen:

Faye and Trevor squeeze in a few moments of shooting me when they possibly can, between helping out the photographers, so finally here are some of their results too:

By Faye Yerbury:

And by Trevor Yerbury:

And I love this version Trevor posted on facebook, after 'playing around':

The Yerbury stand, down in the exhibition hall, looked absolutely wonderful. Here are some snapshots I took on my phone afterwards, plus a few images I spotted myself in, successfully awarded in the 20 X 16 print competition (two by Faye and the coloured image of Ivory Flame and I, shot by Keith Cooper):

And, while I'm here, here's a shot Faye took of me on another day, which I don't think has appeared on this blog before. Very classical!

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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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