Color me love

Image : Artist unknown

A kiss before you leave...

Because I love your lips.

Because I'm no longer scorpio.

Because everything's a change.

Because I'll never forget.

Because we'll always be.

bLaCkBiRd

For no one

bLeSséEs

Illustration : Kukula

Could IT be

..Could it be..

...Will it be...

....Should it be....

.Doesn't matter. Just BE.

Piers Faccini + Camille - One of these Things first from KIDAM on Vimeo.

bEaUtÉ

So happy to make such discoveries...

All bands from Rennes...

The city that has adopted me...



City Series Rennes #1.1 - Last Morning Soundtrack from KIDAM on Vimeo.

Beyond Words

A short film that goes beyond words...

Thank you Libertad

A Thousand Words from Ted Chung on Vimeo.

My secret is yours

So, what's your secret?

Visit: 

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Or simply post your secret to: 

POST SECRET

13345 Copper Ridge Rd.

Germantown,  MD (USA)
20874

BuBbLe It!!!

WHY MAKE IT SO COMPLICATED WHEN WE CAN JUST BUBBLE IT?

By © TABUTEAUD S.

CHANGE!

Photo: Vincent Skeltis

"Si l'on garde jalousement pour soi ce qui nous est donné par la vie, il arrive un jour où, à force

d'être rempli de tous ces dons, il ne reste plus la place de rien recevoir. Et toutes ces choses

reçues pourrissent en nous, nous intoxiquent, nous étouffent."

Jacques Higelin

Feliz No Futuro

Found here

Cathleen Naundorf

I discovered her work thanks to POLKA and I fell in love immediately...

 

Visit her website for more...

Photos by Cathleen Naundorf also at Polka Galerie 

Crisis financiera: ¿de dónde nos viene?

Me parece, que en estos momentos de "crisis" lo mejor que podemos hacer es informarnos:

"El 95% del dinero es creado por bancos privados

Hace ya más de un año que la crisis financiera es noticia, desde que estalló en Estados Unidos con el nombre de crisis subprime, se ha publicado mucho, explicando con más o menos precisión y acierto, como se ha producido esta crisis en los aspectos más concretos. Lo que no se ha explicado tanto, y en ningún caso en los medios de comunicación masivos, es cómo la necesidad de crecimiento exponencial que tiene el actual sistema financiero es la causa de fondo de la burbuja especulativa, y por tanto de la propia crisis, además de tener una relación directa con las crisis energética y alimentaria. Así pues, aprovecharemos esta oportunidad de llegar al público, para explicar no ya la crisis crediticia sino el transfondo que hace que el sistema financiero actual sea una gran estafa para la gente trabajadora, así como un peligro para la sostenibilidad de la vida en nuestro planeta. Entenderemos de este modo el papel que juegan los bancos, como los principales responsables de todo en definitiva."

Por eso los invito a que visiten los recursos a continuación:

En español:
Artículo: http://polaris.moviments.net:8000/es/el-95-del-dinero-es-creado-por-bancos-privados

Videos: http://video.google.es/videoplay?docid=-2882126416932219790&ei=G1L4SOOjEY-o2wLypbXcDg&q=de+d%C3%B3nde+viene+el+dinero%3F&hl=es

En français:
Video : http://vimeo.com/1711304?pg=embed&sec=1711304

In English:
Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThXpjmfyiMQ

Article: http://polaris.moviments.net:8000/95-money-created-private-banks

Mierda artística

Artist's shit is a work of art by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni that was influenced by Marcel Duchamp's readymades.

In May 1961, Manzoni collected his own feces in 90 numbered cans, which contain 30 grams of feces each. He labelled them as '100% pure artist's shit' in Italian, English, French, and German, and sold them for the price of their weight in gold.

Their current estimated value stands at approximately EUR30,500 (US$25,000–35,000).

Some of the cans have exploded or leaked as a result of internal pressure or the corrosion of the metallic parts.

Although one is expected to suppose that the cans actually contain human feces, it has been said that they actually contain a kind of peach jam.

Going Diane Arbus

Title: Puerto Rican woman with a beauty mark
Photographer: Diane Arbus, 1965

Title: Autoretrato
Photographer: Diane Arbus, 195...

Title: Auto retrato de su embarazo
Photographer: Diane Arbus, 195...

To go Arbus, see:
Fur: An Imaginary
Portrait of Diane Arbus
(also known as Fur)
Film director: Steven Shainberg

Yippeee !!!!

Para reponerme de un comentario que me ha dejado una fulana que vive en un Town que no queiro visitar aunque la estimo muchísimo (saludos Sara: es eso, el cumple que con el número de más me pesa, y que estoy tan ocupada que no tengo tiempo ni para...bueno, tú sabes...¿Qué tal tus enefermedades venéreas, y Rocinante, y esa pelea? Qué bobas son, pero yo también las he tenido iguales con Ría. Que agradable la visita; yo siempre las leo...), voy a publicar alguito, no mio, pero vivido en mi último viaje a Londres.

Choreographer Lea Anderson’s new work, Yippeee!!! (2006) is named after the 1930 musical Whoopee!. With live music, there is no plot and no singing, just movement numbers and bits of action in between. In it her two companies, the all-female Cholmondeleys and the all-male Featherstonehaughs present movement that is at times quirky, with references to the great Busby Berkeley works.

Simon Corder provides a Hollywood type set with a shiny floor and lights on wheeled booms that the dancers move around on the stage. Steve Blake, one of Anderson’s regular collaborators, formed a new band, Yum Yum, with Simon King and Pat Thomas with a sort of electro-screech sound with repetitive riffs and improvisation as well as song-like sound structures.

The imagery is an abstract take on the thirties musical movies in the at times camp costumes of Simon Vincenzi. However, the work begins to fall apart after about half an hour with nothing new being said. Though not a pastiche, this is an at times silly and cynical send up of thirties Hollywood musicals which is both clever and funny but at 90 minutes without an interval, too long for comfort and lacking an enriching dance vocabulary to hold the attention.

Yo estuve allí (verdad Libe y Carla?!) y me sentí igual que esta chica
Gavin Roebuck que ha decidido publicar esto en el diario británico
"The Stage" : divertidamente confusa
pero con las ganas de ver danza de verdad.

Pero qué rayos, estaba en Londres, ¿no?

Reflexión

Powered by Castpost
Jesus loves me
But not my wife
Not my nigger friends
Or their nigger lives
But jesus loves me
That's for sure
'Cause the bible tells me so
Read your bible good and well
Don't forget about that apple spell
Don't fall in the wishing well
Wishing for heaven and gettin' hell
Wash behind your eras don't smell
Cover them freckles don't ask don't tell
Kiss your papa but not too long
Hold his hands
Don't do no wrong
Jesus loves me
But not my wife
Not my nigger friends
Or their nigger lives
But jesus loves me
That's for sure
'Cause the bible tells me so
Hush don't cry
Dry them tears
Time'll wash away all them years
Scare or a bruise
Pick and choose
When you're all grown up
You'll have the blues
Life'll give you that wedding ring
Fancy cars and diamond things
You best believe in jesus' way
And never fall asleep forgetting to pray
Jesus loves me
But not my wife
Not my nigger friends
Or their nigger lives
But jesus loves me
That's for sure
'Cause the bible tells me so

Artista: Coco Rosie
Imagen: Mark Hansen
Más letras

Being Alan Conway

( Para los que vieron o no la pelìcula "Colour Me Kubrick")

The counterfeit Kubrick Alan Conway dined out as 'Stanley Kubrick' for years. In fact, he was a travel agent from Harrow By Andrew Anthony Sunday March 14, 1999 In the early Nineties, a man called Alan Conway went about London telling people he was Stanley Kubrick. Strangely, even though he was English, beardless and had apparently only seen a couple of Kubrick's films, Conway persuaded various influential figures that he was indeed the semi-mythical, hirsute American director who had exiled himself in Hertfordshire. One evening in Covent Garden, a tableful of showbiz-savvy Americans - including the New York Times's then razor-sharp theatre critic Frank Rich, and a Hollywood producer who had actually met Kubrick - fell for Conway's act. As 'Kubrick', Conway gained entrance to the Groucho Club and other exclusive nightspots, where he was careful never to pay a bill or sign a cheque. He went backstage at the theatre and told Julie Walters and Patricia Hayes he was considering using them in a film. Others who thought they had befriended the world's most reclusive 'auteur' included the former Tory MP Sir Fergus Montgomery and the light-entertainment vocalist Joe Longthorne. Eventually, Conway, a former travel agent, was unmasked in a Vanity Fair article and went on to admit his deception on TV, in a series called The Lying Game. Far from appearing sad or pathetic, there was something morally satisfying about the story. The director of 2001: A Space Odyssey had long ago left behind the world of fame, but celebrity abhors a vacuum. If Kubrick did not want to exist in public, then somebody had to invent him. The reason Conway's invention proved so successful had little to do with his powers of mimicry but much to do with his victims' weakness of vanity. People believed Conway was Kubrick because they wanted to believe one of the planet's most secretive men had decided to reveal himself to them. 'I really did believe I was Stanley Kubrick,' Conway admitted. 'I could have carried on until the day I died.' Or, he might have added, until Kubrick died. One evening last week, at the door of a grim little flat in Harrow, north London, I asked to see Alan Conway. 'I'm his son,' answered a young man. 'What's it about?' 'Stanley Kubrick.' 'He's dead,' said the man, who introduced himself as Martin Conway. 'Yes,' I said. 'He died a few days ago.' 'No,' he explained. 'My father, Alan Conway, is dead. But come in, I'll tell you about him. You'll get more truth out of me than you ever would have done from him.' Conway Snr died at home on 5 December last year, just a few months before the man whose identity he had so profitably adopted expired in his country mansion. His son, a 23-year-old law student, invited me into a cramped living-room and set about telling a tale that, in its own twisted way, rivalled Kubrick's for mystery. By turns comic, tragic and bizarre, it also exposed a humanity more raw and complex than any depicted in the filmmaker's oeuvre. Alan Conway Conway was born Eddie Alan Jablowsky in 1934. He told friends, in later years, that he was a Polish Jew who had escaped Nazi occupation. In fact, he was born in Whitechapel. At 13, he was sent to Borstal for theft. In a move that demonstrated his cheeky self-dramatisation, Jablowsky changed his name to Alan Conn (Conway was one of his many later personae). By the time he met Martin's mother, he had a string of convictions for deception. The family moved to South Africa, but had to return when a number of Conway's business deals came under official scrutiny. Nevertheless, back in Britain he was able, with his wife, to build a travel agency with offices in Harrow, Muswell Hill and London's West End. Things started to go wrong in the late Eighties, when Conway left his wife for his gay lover, who was to die later of Aids. The business collapsed, he became an alcoholic and started to indulge his fantasies. Kubrick once said that 'watching a film is really like taking part in a controlled dream'. For Martin Conway, watching his father's life was like an uncontrollable nightmare. After his mother died, Martin moved in with his father, who was prone to violent fits of temper. 'He physically abused me and set his friends on me. Once, one of them chased me in front of a car and I broke my kneecap. He terrorised me.' Eventually, the social services became involved and, aged 16, Martin was placed in a children's home. 'He used to answer the phone in this terrible American accent,' recalls Martin. 'And his friends used to call him "Stanley".' While he was in summer season in Torquay, Joe Longthorne met Conway, or rather a man he took to be Kubrick. Longthorne does not want to talk about the episode but his agent told me the singer thought the director was 'going to make him a star. Joe treated him like a king. He laid on a Roller for him and put him up in a top hotel. The guy told Joe he was going to put him in his next film'. Quite what the seaside entertainer thought the most obsessive filmmaker in history was doing talent-scouting on Devon's cabaret circuit is not clear. Longthorne's extravagant hospitality came to an end a week later when he learnt, via Warner Brothers, that Stanley Kubrick was not in fact in the vicinity of the English Riviera. Longthorne's was the most expensive example of gullibility but, arguably, not the least likely. That award probably goes to Frank Rich, the former 'Butcher of Broadway'. He and his friends invited a drunk Conway to join them at their table in Joe Allen's restaurant. Conway was with Sir Fergus and a couple of young men who caused the Americans to suspect the three-times married Kubrick was homosexual. 'Everyone always thought Hal the computer acted like a jealous gay lover,' Rich observed. Again, having made their appeals for exclusive interviews, the journalists were disappointed to learn, on checking with Warners, that their man was an impostor. One of the party was so beguiled by the 'counterfeit Kubrick' that, unthwarted by Warner's denials, he contacted Kubrick's lawyer, only once more to be told that the director was still with beard and was not in the habit of dining in London restaurants. The lawyer informed Kubrick of his alter ego. Apparently, the director was fascinated by the idea. Back at home, Conway was increasingly unable to distinguish between his real life and the fictions he was creating. If ever his son confronted him with his fantasies, the father would accuse him of lying. Conway would later say that, almost in a dream state as 'Kubrick', he travelled to New York and Rio (Kubrick, of course, hated to fly and, as far as anyone knew, had not left England for years). Martin doesn't know if these trips took place or were imagined. In 1995, Conway checked into the Priory, to be treated for alcoholism. He never drank again and became a committed member of Alcoholics Anonymous. One of the tenets of AA is that participants are punishingly honest with themselves and with each other. As part of this process, they are called upon to recount their biographies. Martin came across his father's AA diary and learnt that he had invented yet another life story in which he had businesses in the Cayman Islands and led a flamboyant lifestyle far away from the drudgery of Harrow. 'He was a compulsive liar,' said his son, shaking his head in disbelief. In his will, Conway left £30,000 to a former friend, £5,000 to another man, and the rest of his money to his son. The only problem was that Conway didn't have a penny. Martin discovered that the former friend, whom he assumes had mistaken Conway for Kubrick, was still owed £30,000 by his father and the will was just a jokey reference to the debt. Martin also showed me unpaid bills in different names from Amex, Barclaycard and other companies, running into many thousands of pounds. There was an outstanding phone bill for £879.17, primarily from calling gay chat lines. Conway died from cardiac thrombosis, although initially the police suspected foul play owing to an unexplained bruise on his neck. Whatever happened, it sounds like a lonely death, far more solitary than the demise of the supposedly hermetic Kubrick. Martin, who had been living with Conway again, was not there when his father died. He still harbours an enormous and understandable resentment towards a man who, in his fantasies and personality swings, eluded everybody including himself. Yet, as he says, he misses him. A short while after Conway died, his son returned to the flat and heard an answerphone message. 'Hi Stanley,' said a threatening voice. 'I'm going to get you this time. I'm going to get you.' The truth is, though, nobody ever really got 'Stanley'.