16

I'm mellow now, darling.
I'm sorry, darling. You have nodded to Thurston Moore, while working double shifts, darling.
You know you do magic, darling.
I haven't been burning my Palo Santo, or meditating as of lately, my darling. My feng shui is all over the place,darling. The mirror is misplaced. I know. Gaba and things remain sort of intact. It's too hot. It's like California in here, but we don't speak Californian. Or something. We have ancient palaces, narrow streets and the infinite Atlantic ocean instead. We don't have Shakespeare, Henry the VIII, Ab Fab, Madchester, the Labour party, Joan Collins, NME, Britpop, Lord Byron or ancient Anglo-Saxon codes. I could draw you a semantic tree, though.
I feel tired all the time, my darling. It must be an iron deficiency. Blame it on the garbanzo beans and avocado sandwiches. Lacking ketchup and ice cream, and shortbread since the early 2000's. 
I don't know how to buy you wine, darling, because I'm a beer/Pellegrino/Perrier drinker. The posh, organic markets make me act silly. I walked in them ailes like if I had two left feet. And so I leave. I don't feel white enough. Or posh enough. Or stylish enough. Or wise enough. And there is always someone asking me if I need something, and I always feel like when I was 16,too high to care, too willing to steal a Kit Kat. And its like, I might be doing something illegal. I'm an adult trying to buy wine, okay? So I leave. I might return, though. Maybe I'll wear heels and a moustache next time. I'll go undercover. Or something.
My palate is unsophisticated, my love. I prefer the late Summer, 6 pm-ish afternoons, when we eat cherries and peaches in the dunes and then we go swimming in the calm, deep blue, Atlantic ocean. It's quiet and there are only a couple of hysterical  kids and us. And then we return home. And we walk by flower trees. And there are Corsas and early 90s cars parked that we dream about.Because if trashy Euro techno is on, we're on. And there are people with sunburns. But everyone seems happy. And it feels like magic when we capture the magical sky with the shitty cameras on our phones. And even fake croissants appropriations feel right at the local bakery. And we are too tired to recall climbing up and down rocks by the seashore and holding magical seahorses, And we talk about Morph, and the world can't get any right than this.
I could post you an erotic, ambient, loving song. But I won't, ok? Because I'm not like that. Oh, du bist so hubsch, Oh du bist so nett. I feel like 16 when I talk to you. I hunchback and I snore when you make me laugh, and I try to act cool.  Which is cute, right?

Kostars - Hey, Cowboy

beat

I'm mellow now, darling.
I'm sorry, darling. You have nodded to Thurston Moore, while working on a 24 hour shift, darling.
You know you do magic, darling.
I haven't been burning my Palo Santo, or meditating as of lately, my darling. My feng shui is all over the place,darling. The mirror is misplaced. I know. Gaba and things remain sort of intact. It's too hot. It's like California in here, but we don't speak Californian. Or something.
I feel tired all the time, my darling. It must be an iron deficiency. Blame it on the garbanzo beans and avocado sandwiches. Lacking ketchup and ice cream, and shortbread since the early 2000's. 
I don't know how to buy you wine, darling, because I'm a beer/Pellegrino/Perrier drinker. The posh, organic markets make me act silly. I walked in them ailes like if I had two left feet. And so I leave. I don't feel white enough. Or posh enough. Or stylish enough. Or wise enough. And there is always someone asking me if I need something, and I always feel like when I was 16,too high to care, too willing to steal a Kit Kat. And its like, I might be doing something illegal. I'm an adult trying to buy wine, okay? So I leave. I might return, though. Maybe I'll wear heels and a moustache next time.
My palate is unsophisticated, my love. I prefer the late Summer, 6 pm-ish afternoons, when we eat cherries and peaches in the dunes and then we go swimming in the calm, deep blue, Atlantic ocean. It's quiet and there are only a couple of hysterical  kids and us. And then we return home. And we walk by flower trees. And there are Corsas and early 90s cars parked that we dream about.Because if trashy Euro techno is on, we're on. And there are people with sunburns. But everyone seems happy. And it feels like magic when we capture the magical sky with the shitty cameras on our phones. And even fake croissants appropriations feel right at the local bakery. And we are too tired to recall climbing up and down rocks by the seashore and holding magical seahorses, And we talk about Morph, and the world can't get any right than this.
I could post you an erotic, ambient, loving song. But I won't, ok? Oh, du bist so hubsch, Oh du bist so nett.

A conversation with Joanne Burke


In an era of a globalized, massification of taste, Joanne Burke creates Art. Wearable Art. Her work, makes our brains tickle and our hearts skip a beat. Looking at her work is like stepping into a magic time portal, which directly sends us to ancient realms populated by gods and goddesses, mysterious creatures and mythological symbols. And Beauty. We are able to see Beauty and craftsmanship in every detail. And humour. Because intelligence and humour go hand in hand. The penis ring, the boob ring, the sacred and ancient phallic and fertility connotations, see light again, unpretentiously in this industrialized , mechanical and banal sex era.
While some people post on Instagram more or less crooked photos of undifferentiated trash and this season's shoes, Joanne Burke posts Art. Photos of nuns in Rome wearing inspiring colour schemes of black and washed out blue, ancient civilizations ruins, funny Medieval painting details, and the jewels designed by her. Joanne Burke just makes all of us want to move to Rome, wear antique Romanian blouses and remain indifferent to modern world maladies.


Please tell us a little about your background.
At this moment, a chalky white wall with a tall leafy plant leaning towards me, as if to whisper me something....3 masks hanging- one a paper mache Egyptian face made by a child, one of an Indian goddess supposedly stolen from a temple in India and the other, my favourite, of an ugly old lady. A string of seashells from Tasmania hanging from a blue candle. A white piano scattered with corals, pearls and shells I've collected and a ceramic girl riding a fish ornament i bought with me from America that is very important and special to me.


Your work reflects a very intricate, intimate and artistic world; filled with ancient symbols and almost ritualistic codes. Where does your inspiration come from?
From the need to find a better way of understanding and communicating my feeling to myself and others. I've created my own 'code' as you say, as a way to manage my own reality instead of trying to adapt to usual existing codes, that just don't fit me at all.


What was your first fashionable memory?
 Wearing a tiny pair of engraved brass Aladdin shoe ornaments from my grandmothers fireplace decoration and being so upset to visit for the weekend and find that my feet had grown too big to wear them anymore. Also, drawing my dream outfits of faux-fur vagina skirts, plastic sunglasses bras with nipple eyes and shoes with alive and dead fish inside the heels when i was 8 or 9.


What are your favourite things about living in Rome?
The expected and unexpected visions awaiting you around every corner....


I know you have studied dance. What is your favourite piece?
Martha Graham-Night Journey (1947).

All photos used with permission by the author.

Joanne Burke website

Exclusive - Uber den Wolken by Crista Leonard

Germany born Julia Breiter moved to Barcelona, and started to run her small. vintage shop, where she occasionally would also sell upcycled vintage garments. That was the beginning of Über den Wolken, Over the Clouds, as we know these days.

Crista Leonard was born in England, grew up in Andorra and is now Barcelona based. Crista shoots for a range of brands and is also Co Editor in Chief of lifestyle publication Philistine magazine.

Julia's 90s references, nordic lagenlook reinventions, uncomplicated and functional styles, signature palettes and clever fabric choices proudly and quietly stand as a detour from the predominant fashion aggressions that seem to overpopulate the media. Beautiful linen and cotton mixes separates bring the perfect Mediterranean minimalism to a Summer's wardrobe, ready to unfold the Atlantic mysteries, here captured by Crista Leonard

Photography by Crista Leonard
Model Florence Lucila

post-ambient


We take a moment to look at details. People tend to walk too fast. Living too fast. Talking too much nonsense. With slow hands we touch a shadow play projected on a concrete wall. We take time to observe the architectural details of arum lilies. This feels as good as when a cute child smiles at you in the subway, while you're carrying groceries. As good  as when  you see an interesting building or as good as when you find yourself in a big, open field. The air is fresh. Feels good.
We look at how perfect a slice of orange really is. We tremble on the inside when we look at the apartment of Richard Gere in American Gigolo. We don't care about the plot, but did you see that vase?
We like our coffee in a cardboard colour. Coffee. Milk. No sugar. Cardboard colour. Is it wrong that we like seductive atmospheres so much?

 

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