Ella Rose Muse: the story

Thursday, 1 October 2015

Murgtal & The Sunflower Gatherer

Even more from Steven Billups' film results (see the first post here!), shot in Murgtal, Germany.

The sunflower field...

Polaroids...

Right, I'd better run to today's shoot now! Happy Autumn everyone!

Friday, 25 September 2015

Creativity; Storm-sky Thinking

I love this 360 experiment by Rayment Kirby.

Click on the image below to see it...

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

Lavender Blue

I had a really stressful dream last night in which one of my friends secretly borrowed one of my bellydance costumes (the mermaidy one) to wear to a club night. I was too polite to mention the graveness of the situation; delicate embellishment getting knocked around and ripped off in neon-lit tree houses, etc. I don't know what she was thinking. I forgave her when I woke up. (Also, I fell in love with a man in a lift.)

Anyway, since we're (well, I'm, anyway) in the mood for whimsy, here are some images taken by the lovely and talented Elle Hicks in one of my favourite locations of all time, the humble (but glorious) lavender fields here in England. Such a pleasure to be in their midst, even if we did have a bit of trouble at the start of the shoot that threatened to put a stop to the whole thing (I think the less said about that, the better!) :-)

Make up by me as usual; clever prettiness by Elle:

Additionally, here's Sir Fluffalot, much famed over on my instagram accounts (here and here), having been disturbed while reading. He's a bit cross about that, clearly.

Saturday, 19 September 2015

Postcards & Telegrams

Hope all your weekends are spiffing. I finished today's shoot at 9am and had the rest of the day off before tomorrow's shoot. I think these must have got stuck in some historical vault; some postcards from a shoot with Simon Newlyn, who I will have the pleasure of modelling for again next week on an entirely different theme!

Thursday, 10 September 2015

Broken Castles: I Am Not Afraid

New work from Steven Billups in our traditional jaunt to Germany... Always a highlight in my calendar. I really love working with him.

This is 'part one' - abandoned castles (film). Parts two and three (water and rivers; flowers made of sun) can come later...

I was listening to this Jill Scott track (<<< click on it for a soundtrack to your viewing!) when I looked through the images he sent me. Her voice was often in my ear in the past and I'm enjoying re-listening to all of her work. Lyrics:

"I'm Not Afraid"

I'm not afraid to be your lady
I'm not afraid to be your whore
I'm not afraid to be your future
I'm not afraid to be your soil
In which you plant your seed
Flowers, they sprout for me
My fragrance in the breeze
You must nurture me please
I'm not afraid to be your baby
I'm not afraid to be your strength
I'm not afraid to be open wide
I'm not afraid to be glutinous
The essence of glue
I will stick to you
Through earthquakes and moods
If ever one thing was true
I'm not afraid to wind it, wind it
I'm not afraid to keep your pace
I'm not afraid to create my queendom
I'm not afraid to take my place
I'm not afraid

As always, it's best to click on the first image then use the arrow keys to scroll through (it makes them bigger!).

Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)

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.

Pages