Saturday, March 28, 2009


I came across this darling photo of Barret Swatek and I just had to post about it! I'm always a fan of sassy things that manage to stay lovely, and I though this picture was a perfect fit.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Young Love

The loveliest part in Lolita is Humbert's memories of his first love, Annabel. Their love is so honest and pure, amongst all their tender and clumsy encounters. This excerpt has always enchanted me and it is the kind of love I dreamt of when I was younger.

Annabel was, like the writer, of mixed parentage: half-English, half-Dutch, in her case. I remember her features far less distinctly today than I did a few years ago, before I knew Lolita. There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Annabel in such general terms as: "honey-colored skin," "thin arms," "brown bobbed hair," "long lashes," "big bright mouth"); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark innerside of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colors (and this is how I see Lolita).

All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do. After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her garden (of which more later), the only privacy we were allowed was to be out of earshot but not out of sight on the populous part of the plage. There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender brown fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer; then, her opalescent knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other's salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still clawed at each other, could bring relief.

Among some treasures I lost during the wanderings of my adult years, there was a snapshot taken by my aunt which showed Annabel, her parents and the staid, elderly, lame gentleman, a Dr. Cooper, who that same summer courted my aunt, grouped around a table in a sidewalk café. Annabel did not come out well, caught as she was in the act of bending over her chocolate glacé and her thin bare shoulders and the parting in her hair were about all that could be identified (as I remember that picture) amid the sunny blur into which her lost loveliness graded; but I, sitting somewhat apart from the rest, came out with a kind of dramatic conspicuousness: a moody, beetle-browed boy in a dark sport shirt and well-tailored white shorts, his legs crossed, sitting in profile, looking away. That photograph was taken on the last day of our fatal summer and just a few minutes before we made our second and final attempt to thwart fate. Under the flimsiest of pretexts (this was our very last chance, and nothing really mattered) we escaped from the cafe to the beach, and found a desolate stretch of sand, and there, in the violet shadow of some red rocks forming a kind of cave, had a brief session of avid caresses, with somebody's lost pair of sun-glasses for only witness. I was on my knees, and on the point of possessing my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald encouragement, and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu.

I have reserved for the conclusion of my "Annabel" phase the account of our unsuccessful first tryst. One night, she managed to deceive the vicious vigilance of her family. In a nervous and slender-leaved mimosa grove at the back of their villa we found a perch on the ruins of a low stone wall. Through the darkness and the tender trees we could see the arabesques of lighted windows which, touched up by the colored inks of sensitive memory, appear to me now like playing cards--presumably because a bridge game was keeping the enemy busy. She trembled and twitched as I kissed the corner of her parted lips and the hot lobe of her ear. A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves; that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own. Her legs, her lovely live legs, were not too close together, and when my hand located what it sought, a dreamy and eerie expression, half-pleasure, half-pain, came over those childish features. She sat a little higher than I, and whenever in her solitary ecstasy she was led to kiss me, her head would bend with a sleepy, soft, drooping movement that was almost woeful, and her bare knees caught and compressed my wrist, and slackened again; and her quivering mouth, distorted by the acridity of some mysterious potion, with a sibilant intake of breath came near to my face. She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; then my darling would draw away with a nervous toss of her hair, and then again come darkly near and let me feed on her open mouth, while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I gave her to hold in her awkward fist the scepter of my passion.

I recall the scent of some kind of toilet powder--I believe she stole it from her mother's Spanish maid --a sweetish, lowly, musky perfume. It mingled with her own biscuity odor, and my senses were suddenly filled to the brim; a sudden commotion in a nearby bush prevented them from overflowing--and as we drew away from each other, and with aching veins attended to what was probably a prowling cat, there came from the house her mother's voice calling her, with a rising frantic note--and Dr. Cooper ponderously limped out into the garden. But that mimosa grove--the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since--until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.

(excerpt via Vladimir Nabokov)

Virgin Suicides

I've been feeling rather broken hearted today, so I decided to cuddle up on the couch and watch Virgin Suicides. Theres nothing more lovely or tragic than a teenage girl...

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Black and White Summer

This Vogue Italia shoot makes me so excited for the summer...

photos by Greg Kadel

Monday, March 23, 2009

Dreamy Ballet

Blurry ballet wonderland shoot from Elle that makes me want to twirl and whisper.

I Carry Your Heart With Me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

one of my favorite poems.. by e.e. cummings

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Lovely Bath

Loving, adoring, and swooning over Katya's bath from Interview. I love how calm and elegant the lighting is, and the fixture on the wall is so lovely. How romantic!

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Lovely Summer Food

Sugar Rush

When my guilty pleasure is on the cover of Rolling Stone, I get a little giddy. I'm loving the shoot, its very seductive and indulgent- a sugar rush. Oh, Gossip Girl, how I love (and hate) you so...

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Le Scaphandre et le Papillon

I am madly in love with Le Scaphandre et le Papillon ( The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.) It is a tender film about Jean-Dominique Bauby, the editor of French Elle. Jean-Dominique had a stroke at age 43, and was paralyzed with the exception of his left eyelid. His only way of communicating with the world was by blinking. This beautiful movie is based off of Jean-Dominique's memoir (also titled le scaphandre et le papillon) that he wrote by blinking. Jean-Dominique died 10 days after completing his book, and I find his whole story to be quite magical and mesmerizing. The film is a blurry and beautiful insight into Jean-Dominique's new view of the world.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


So sorry for all the abandonment, life is moving too quickly! I came across this lovely old Keira Knightley Vogue photo shoot and I thought it was a perfect fit. The shoot is so sweet and modest, I love it! It reminds me of warm summer air...

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Lovely Inspirations

I've been doing quite a bit of daydreaming about fanciful things (I think it all stemmed from the gorgeous Oscar de la Renta dress that I fell in love with.) So I've been looking for inspirations for evening gowns, beautiful hair, and lovely makeup. Here are some wonderfully dreamy inspirations

Nicole Kidman pretty in pink in the Chanel No. 5 Commercial. I love the simplicity of her hair and her pale skin with the pale pink dress.

Love Drew Barrymore's fairy makeup and hair in Ever After! Glitter and jewels, oh my!

Love the royalty of Marie Antoinette- especially the simple black ribbon around the neck or the pretty lace eye mask! Everything is over the top and utterly delicious.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Flipping and Flopping

I'm going a little shoe crazy, spring is coming and my feet are ready for -affordable- sandals!

Love these serpent sandals

Darling flower sandals
Totally have a crush on these funky soho sandals

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Scarlet Fever

My lovely little blog has been quite abandoned for the past few weeks and I'm very sorry, but I'm pleased to return! I came down with scarlet fever, and yes, I was quite pleased with the damsel in distress situation I was given. I spent the week feeling quite like Beth in Little Women with my rosy cheeks and endless tea and honey. Despite my utterly tragic and romantic illness, I managed to discover two charming little things...


I was quite tickled with Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Aside from the obvious sexiness and beauty, the movie is actually very smart and hilarious. It tenderly pokes fun at the damaged artists (you and I, of course) of the world. Must see, must see indeed.


Thanks to Vicky Cristina Barcelona, I have fallen absolutely in love with Javier Bardem. Maybe it was my fever that got me blushing, but listening to him speak Spanish was quite thrilling.

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