Looking into the lens I ask myself: people spot a big black lens, and they worry about what they’re doing, or how their hair looks. Nobody see the person holding the camera. Photography is the best way, where you can save your sweet past. Life is a journey, photography is the shepherd. Take lots of photos, because you will forget most of what you see when you’re traveling through life. If you choose your subject selectively – intuitively – the camera can write poetry.
Is a picture really worth a thousand words? What thousand words? A thousand words from a lunatic, or a thousand words from Nietzsche? Actually, Nietzsche was a lunatic. What about a thousand words from a rambler vs. 500 words from Mark Twain? He could say the same thing quicker and with more force than almost any other writer. It’s wild to declare the equivalency of any picture with any army of thousand words. The camera would miss it all. A magnificent picture is never worth a thousand perfect words. A photographer can be a great artist, but he can never be Shakespeare. His tools are too literal. What can be proved by a photograph, can never be by a word. All photos speak a thousand words. Only a few contain a library.
Silk Scarf Coming
Très chic. I am planning on buying 20 Porsche and crashing them all just for the extravagance! Ohhh, je suis très désolé! Independence has always been my attitude. And because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. To do, not what is expected, but what I feel is right. You don’t need a perfect body or designer clothes to score a date. All you need is a smile and an actual life of your own.
Function and beauty are inseparable. Beauty as an end in itself is out of place in fashion style. If a styling detail is to be really satisfactory from an aesthetic point of view, it must be functionally justified. I am a modern lady, but not a trendy one. One that expresses power and speed even while standing still. A clean, taut, well-balanced, yet handsome body that makes no concessions to passing fancy styling. Ought to weather for years without looking dated. I remain eternally young, simply because of my characteristic shape and reduction to an absolute functional minimum. Other women get old, I get vintage. I am meant to be driven; not polished or ‘princessed’. The roads are waiting and so is me. Riding in its purest form. You get more performance out of me with less of everything. I’m never overdressed. ‘Topless’ I am best. Hit me on the road, hammer down, push me to my limits and you seriously can burn some rubber with me.
Miss Nice Saxing America
I’ve been out on that open road. Singing in the old bars. Swinging with the old cars. That’s the way the road dogs do it, ride ’til dark. That’s the way I make my life an art. Playing, hot or cold, saxing blues has been getting old. This is my idea of fun. Don’t break me down, I’ve been traveling too long. I’ve been trying too hard, with one pretty song.
I spent my whole life driving in cars with boys, riding around town, drinking in the white noise. I spent my whole life wasted in bars, playing Rock ‘n’ Roll, dancing in the loud noise. They say I’m wasting time, they said that I’m no good. Winter of my life, not doing what I should. I wear my red lipstick, I grab my coat and sax. Let’s ride. Don’t take me home again, take me to a new land. I can escape to the great sunshine, make it out to the other side. Drugs, suck it up like Vanilla Ice-ys, treat me really nice-ys. My eyes are wide like cherry pies. I come alive, alive. I was born to live fast, die young. Live my life on the run. Oh, my God, I feel it in the air. I’m on fire, I feel it everywhere, wonder if this is it, it’s darkest before dawn. I fall asleep in an American flag. I’m Miss America, now I’m gone. I’m Miss America, now I’m free.
First impressions can be wrong. So let me clear what’s going on! I’m not who you think I am. I need to feel some lips on mine. So pulling you across the line! I’ve got a secret rose tattoo. I’m dying just to show you! You think I’m the fragile one? One slip, the damage done! Don’t wrap me up in cotton wool. Upon a pedestal. If you touch me I won’t break. Don’t think of me that way. I’m not such an innocent girl! Don’t be scared you’ll break my heart. Not gonna fall apart!
Nothing will attract a man more than the picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman who wantonly changes her favorites without scruple in accordance with her whim. Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman’s entire, but decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man into woman’s hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise. The principles are based on the experience of thousands of years.
This is metaphorical story of a seven years old, who is stationed as a young serviceman at a ‘Mobile Army Service Hospital’ during wartime. A hospital alone shows what war is. For this reason he raises questions over the war.
For whom the hammer tolls. All Quiet on the Western Front? It’s only terrible to have nothing to wait for. It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. I want to think and at the same time that’s the last thing in the world I want to do. We are not youth any longer. We’re no longer young men. We’ve lost any desire to conquer the world. We don’t want to take the world by storm. We are refugees. We are fleeing. We are fleeing from ourselves. From our lives. We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial – I believe we are lost. To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory.
4 Children For Sale
This photograph is the remake of an infamous historical photo originally taken on August 4, 1948, that made its way into many U.S. newspapers. Redone to put focus on the tragic case again because things haven’t changed very much. Human trafficking is still around in many countries and still numerous children are sold throughout the world. Many of them abused by child labor and kept in child slavery; not to mention sexual abuse and child prostitution.
They’re on the auction block. A big ’4 Children For Sale – Inquire Within’ sign in a Chicago / Illinois yard mutely tells the tragic story of Mr. and Mrs. Ray Chalifoux, who face eviction from their near barren flat. For long months 40 year old Ray and his wife, Lucille, 24, waged a desperate but losing battle to keep food in the mouth and a roof over their heads. With no place to turn, the jobless coal truck driver and his wife decide to sell their four children. The mother was shielding her eyes from the camera while her four small children stare wonderingly sitting huddled on steps outside. At age 67 Sue Ellen, one of children given away, shared her opinion of her birth mother: “She needs to be in Hell burning! And before I die, I want people to know the story behind the photo.” Two months later Sue Ellen died.
Because the automobile has become our national sex symbol we cannot really enjoy anything unless we can go up an alley for it. So we have to divorce our wife today in order to remove from our mistress the odium of mistress in order to divorce our wife tomorrow in order to remove from our mistress and so on. As a result of which the woman has become cold and and undersexed; she has projected her libido on to the automobile.
So in order to capture and master anything at all of her anymore the man has got to make that car his own. Which is why let him live in a rented rathole though he must he will not only own one but renew it each year in pristine virginity, lending it to no one, letting no other hand ever know the last secret forever chaste forever wanton intimacy of its pedals and levers, having nowhere to go in it himself and even if he did he would not go where scratch or blemish might deface it, spending all Sunday morning washing and polishing and waxing it because in doing that he is caressing the body of the woman who has long since now denied him her bed.
In my teens the backseat produced the sexual revolution. That special night, after ‘The Last Picture Show’, driving my mom’s car along the country roads, I began to wonder how real the landscape truly was, and how much of a dream is a dream. I dreamed of driving off bridges, into the river, into the reservoir on the country road to home, into a lake beneath some twisting highway of my youth. The inside of the old Lincoln smelled like asphalt and desire, gasoline and dreams. There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous.
Three o’clock in the morning. The highway is empty, under a malignant moon. The oil drippings make the roadway gleam like a blue-satin ribbon. The night is still but for a humming noise coming up somewhere behind a rise of ground. Two other, fiercer, whiter moons, set close together, suddenly top the rise, shoot a fan of blinding platinum far down ahead of them. Headlights. The humming burgeons into a roar. The touring car is going so fast it sways from side to side. The road is straight. The way is long. The night is short. Film Noir. And my tears were not allowed to cry.