Ella Rose Muse: the story: Chandelier

Showing posts with label Chandelier. Show all posts

Friday, 11 December 2015

Doors & Chandeliers

You can read all about my recent trip to Brussels in the wake of the terror threat over here on my other blog, which I enjoy updating with various thoughts and pieces of writing now and then (and which you should definitely be following..! :-)), but over here, I thought I'd add some images taken while I was there by Luc Bollen. He took us to the same beautiful house as last time (some previous images here), but this time we used different rooms. I loved shooting there again. I should be able to show you more soon (this is just one set, really), but it's very kind of him to send me some already.

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Welsh Rain, Reflections

I had a great two days with Richard Spurdens in January, shooting at a grand house in Wales. We've worked together a couple of times before and I think we make a good team, having lots of fun and getting lots done in the process! Richard is always brimming with ideas and always happy to go along with mine too - and having packed a large suitcase full of bits and pieces, including my Indian wedding sari and the showgirl costume I bought in Las Vegas, I had plenty for us to work with in the various mini locations scattered inside the house. We worked outside too - in the pouring rain, I might add; I don't normally offer to pose nude in the rain, but it seemed such a shame to waste the opportunities out there!

Richard has kindly sent me some of my favourite results, which means I get to show them off! :-) One of the images has already had a couple of successes/acceptances, so that's good, too!

My Vegas costume:

Dreaming through a window...

(These were great in colour too, and I'm sure Richard won't mind me taking the credit for suggesting we switch on the light inside to create that warm glow... :-) )

A ghostly movement idea we played around with (doesn't the map in the background make the shot? I've got such a thing about maps, myself).

Sari (I'm really quite sulky-looking in the first, for some reason):

Some dance-ish hair flicks at the indoor (overly chlorinated, but gorgeously steamy) pool...

Outdoors in that rain...

...'Refreshing'.

And some 'miscellaneous' images... :-)

(Having to duck underneath the chandelier in the shot below made not slipping off the sloping shelf-thing even more difficult than it already was. 'First world problems'. What a nice house it was!)

Thanks so much Richard for another fruitful experience!

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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.

Pages

Friday, 11 December 2015

Doors & Chandeliers

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Welsh Rain, Reflections