tatouages

i've always secretly wanted an armful of nautical tattoos adorned by sailors en route to the south seas - anchors, mermaids, and scrolls of cryptic phrases. in fact, i once fancied a slight, gentle boy simply because he would roll up the sleeves of his cardigans to reveal tattoos befitting a burly maritime man. i've never found the sense of commitment to accomplish this, so its little surprise that my storybook sensibilities fell for these temporary tattoos by british illustrator julia pott, from her etsy shop.

un film silencieux

i may have gone my whole life without seeing a silent film in its entirety. this morning, with my moma card in hand, i put an end to all that and watched the ethereally gorgeous and perfectly cheeky lady windermere's fan. it was too delicate not to love; as though in a single blink, this celluloid neverland might just vanish. most of all, i liked how some of the movie's conversations went unheard (or in this case, went without intertitles), like bill murray's last whisper in lost in translation.

and my, how i covet all those flapper bands!

une madeleine

(see: tiger lily and tiny teeth)

(the promenade by marc chagall)

today the mail cart delivered flowers, a parcel, and a new book about my favorite artist, marc chagall. i do love a good first page (my favorite is tucked safely away in lady chatterley's lover). a quotation from chagall on this particular first page caught my attention: "every painter is born somewhere. and even though he may respond to the influences of other atmospheres, a certain essence - a certain 'aroma' of his birthplace clings to his work."

i'm certainly not from a land of shtetls, flying lovers, and violin-playing goats. (nevertheless, there were honeysuckle vines and ghost stories; attics and library books; record collections and enchanted, endless summers.) so ever since, i've entertained myself by trying to pick out splashes of my own childhood infatuations.