A seventeen-year-old girl sitting in the open-air summer theatre watching a movie about a seventeen-year-old boy falling madly in love with an enigmatic exchange student during the magical summer of 1983 in Italy.
The 19th century is known to be one of social awareness. Especially in France, the condition of the lower classes began to interest artists.
Setting and time: quarantine day #5, around 7pm. Season: winter. Weather: dark, gloomy, and raining. Drunken wine bottles: one (I swear).
When I set myself to research the representation of the female genitalia in the art world, I was ready to find obstacles. It is nothing new that the topic is taboo and it has been for a long while in the Western world. So, my expectations were low.
Littered with weak character construction, plot holes and a predictable story arch, the only ominous alley that Nightmare Alley encounters is that of its directorial origins.
Placed in front of the window representing the sanctioned union of love between the god of love and human, Amor and Psyche,
Love and death, eroticism and abolition; two entities, two conflicting symbols that nevertheless always find each other throughout time in order to form a contrasting, fervent couple.
If you are not listening to anything, put on a song that you like. A calm one. Maybe some smooth jazz. Maybe a waltz.
At first glance, it appears true beauty always eluded Edith Piaf. At just one and a half metres in height, with the slight figure of a waif, the French chanteuse was never acclaimed for her looks, and her 28 year career never rested on visual glamour.
A new year is coming along and it got me thinking. You know, the usual “what am I thankful for?”. Pretty cliché, but this year has been such a rough one, so why not ask myself?