Posted in Beaux Arts, Fashion, Historia & Memoria by Suzanne on February 12th, 2010 | BBC Wikipedia
Incarnation by Mark Ryden, oil on panel, 72 x 48 inches, 2009 - click to enlarge
Ah, I like etymologically correct art.
This just in for Rydenophiles: In celebration of Abe Lincoln's 201st birthday which we're celebrating today, Porterhouse Fine Art Editions are holding a one-day only sale with 50% off their entire online shop range.
Sale ends tonight midnight PST. Which is Pacific Standard Time, FYI, not an angry request to STFU.
In other news, congrats to Len for winning the last competition! Weeee! Rosemarie Trockel's Replace Me was of course based on Courbet's L’origine du monde from 1866. Well done! Your present is on its way.
"I don't want to swim around, I want to fucking kill things."
And finalemente, my unsolicited two pennies on an occurrence that in the past 24 hours has been emetically exploited by the fashion blogosphère:
When will the world learn that those who write their own requiems eventually die?!
Kate Moss hologram from Alexander McQueen AW06 show
It's not even sad, it just... consequence and logic. It's so relative how, when (and even if ever) the creativity of ones lifetime unfolds; to say that McQueen was too young to die is so very presumptuous and insulting looking at his ripe oeuvre.
He doesn't owe us anything, anymore. In my eyes, he was a 230-year-old noble yet permanently hungry fashion vampire who has seen it all before - the decadent gluttony, the insane grandeur, the ethereal beauty, the auratic melancholy - and it's this what became his creation. It's not going to go away. So just let him go now, please.
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