Tilda Swinton in a film by Ryan McGinley for Pringle of Scotland. Spring Summer 2010.
Backyard in Miyajima.
Crystal Castles is asphyxiating. It’s aggressive and brutal. This Toronto-based band makes electronic music that isn’t ready-made for dancefloors. Their first self-titled album was a brilliant piece of art filled with flickering dissonances and Game Boy interferences – a wonderful collage of futuristic noise pop and schizophrenic screeches. Crystal Castles’ new single Celestica, from their upcoming sophomore album, sees Ethan Kath and Alice Glass explore new territories and go off the beaten track once again. It’s a fascinating, dreamy pop song that sounds like a dangerous hymn for contemporary lovers. “If I’m lost, please don’t find me, Alice mutters, if I drown, let me sink. When it’s cold outside, hold me, don’t hold me. Have they cleansed you with chloride?” Yes, contemporary lovers are cleansed with chloride, in the morning when tears go by in pornographic abandonment. Nothing but flickering dissonances and schizophrenic screeches could best describe romance’s indecency. (Photos courtesy of Ren Rox for Artrocker Magazine)
Paris, le 4 avril 2010.
This lovely little bookstore is called Cow Books, and it is located in the Minami Aoyama district, near Shibuya, Tokyo. Here you’ll find some transgressive works of fiction, anarchist pamphlets and beat generation classics translated from English to Japanese. I am now the proud owner of William S. Burroughs’ Junkie and Paul Auster’s Moon Palace.
Le Bel Été, un film de Stéphanie Di Giusto avec Lou Doillon et Gonzales au piano.
Vanessa Bruno, collection Printemps Été 2010.
Écrit le vendredi, quatre avril deux mille huit :
« Sans trop savoir pourquoi, The Notwist arrive toujours au bon moment dans ma vie. Il y a deux ans, c’était avec Neon Golden, et maintenant, c’est grâce à The Devil, You + Me, leur nouvel album après six années d’absence, et cette chanson surtout, Gloomy Planets, qui me fait frissonner.
En deux années, beaucoup de choses ont changé, et pourtant si peu à la fois. Il y a eu d’heureuses rencontres, et d’autres plus amères, il y a eu des rires, et des rivières de larmes, il y a eu des jouissances, et des périodes sombres, il y a eu plusieurs changements, et pourtant, quand j’écoute Gloomy Planets, je me retrouve dans ce même état qu’au tout départ, avec cette mélancolie du temps qui passe, et de ce corps décharné qui reste, des pertes, des accumulations inutiles aussi bien des souvenirs que des sentiments, et l’idée que tout ça se répétera à l’infini, et me submerge alors cette pensée, que la vie est d’une prodigieuse et exaspérante inutilité, surtout la mienne, mais qu’au milieu de tout ça, je conserverai quelque part très précieusement ce moment, cette soirée passée à boire un cabernet sauvignon, le son me défonçant les tympans et, avec un peu de chance, me tuant un peu plus chaque fois, à boire ce cabernet sauvignon et à tirer des paroles et des arrangements parfaits d’une lugubre poésie de cette chanson de Notwist, la seule véritable consolation à ma présence sur Terre.
C’est déjà ça, j’imagine. »
Je réécrirais exactement la même chose aujourd’hui, il suffirait de changer la date : dimanche, quatre avril deux mille dix.
“Colorflip” by Rafaël Rozendaal, 2008, collection of Sébastien de Ganay.
KATE: A LOVE STORY
It’s Monday morning, and we’ve spent all day making love. The only pauses were the mandatory ones in the shower, because every single time we were fucking, we ended up sweating like crazy and we had to rush to the bathroom in a desperate attempt to feel fresh and novel – although we knew we’d get back to bed and start all over again. We were safe and happy. She lighted a cigarette, and I read an excerpt from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night: “You’re the only girl I’ve seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.” She smiled. And suddenly, I couldn’t pull myself together and hold my tears anymore – I knew she’d leave soon, soon after these bloody kisses and deadly hugs.
I am in love with Zooey Deschanel. She doesn’t know me, I don’t know her. I know I’m not the only one. I know I must compete with twenty thousand other men. But I don’t care. One day, I hope I can invite her for breakfast. We’ll meet in an old Los Angeles diner, near the beach and the feral waves. I will be shy, and she will be shy, too. We wouldn’t say anything. We’d simply order a giant glass of milk, and share it with two red and white striped paper straws. Then we’ll stare at each other for a very long time. She might say something like: I have to go. And I’ll say something like: yes. We would hug one last time, and I’d tragically smile before walking towards the sea, the sunlight slowly vanishing as the sadness starts kicking in.
