They're all crazy.
Never fall under the influence of a bad, bad person in love with the moon and cognisant of all of her secrets.
They're all crazy.
Bra shopping. It's been a while but I seem to remember being happier to dash a jug of sulphuric acid into my own fucking eyes than have to find an entirely new brand of bra. Turns out I was right. I've been looking for a new one since bloody Kmart decided to rejig the cups on their $9 T-shirt jobs, the fucking bastards. In honour of this shitty duty I commissioned, directed and shot a highly symbolic series of images around the item in question juxtaposing exploitative intersectional commentary with the fetishisation of ritualised interpersonal violence and gendered objects in the domestic context.
Your gratitude is my oxygen.
Anyways, all you titty-blessed girls know where my journey is headed; to the flash bra place/department store. Where there is nothing under $60 under any circumstances. Where an older lady clasping the pitiless tape measure of judgement will listen patiently while you try to explain your specific needs i.e. there's no tactful way to say I want a nice slutty bra for my giant rack that really puts it out there and gets me better service in the electronics shop, so I just admit as much in plain language. Sort of like the one I'm wearing now, only not so fucked-out and suicidal. Special occasion? Er... no... not really. Her nonverbal leakage turns slightly-to-decidedly disapproving.
No, you don't want the sort of lace that rips the shit out of your nipples or looks like a tribe of confused, mysterious serpents mating awkwardly under you clothing. Yes, you're aware that every single fucking lingerie manufacturer has a different idea of what DD looks like so you're going to be standing under changing room lights that are like the sun during the Rapture, turning beetroot red and itchy from all the new-bra starch while the mirror titters at your naked flab for three. fucking. hours, robing and disrobing over and over and over. You'll be informed that you are in fact an E and not a DD cup and that all the lightly-padded plain black balconette slash plunge bras stop at D. Sorry about that.
It's the Mormon moo-cow erection-snuffing bras for you, you bossy big boobied harlot.
Are there any black ones, then? No, they won't be back in stock til next year. Do you detect a fleeting note of inveracity in this slightly too-glib assurance? You don't know any more. You walk once again past all the three thousand fucking kinds of awesome bras specifically designed for the people who don't really need one; they are all currently half-price. You will try to load your junk into jade and cerise Ds in the only styles you would vaguely consider wearing; they will defy you almost laughingly and slyly pinch your armpit fat into a sort of disappointed operatic Mandarin face. And in the end you will accept that matronly minimiser bra because it's black and not the colour of a floating corpse or pickled endometrium and you will pay that $70 like a grateful survivor.
Then you'll go home, try it on despairingly and then fling it onto the ottoman at the end of the bed, uttering the first immortal line of the poem you are about to write and your partner will laugh because he is a man, balls can be saggy in the privacy of male attire and nobody dies.
On a far more tasteful note, we finally saw Only Lovers Left Alive last week and will review it pour vous soon. In the meantime, here's the very lovely Yasmine Hamdan and her enchanted vocal stylings from the soundtrack, which is just as much a gorgeous trove of atmospheric righteousness as the film itself.
For all romantics, both hopeless and still hopeful.
(Translation by Deniz Doğan)
I adore you, even if a day passes by without seeing you i forget you? How come this time I drew you the Longing moves the nostalgia in my heart the night gets longer and the day passes backwards oh my fragile heart the separation is killing me I have no solution (hal) I have no solution.
Illustration for IKM Gdańsk leaflet (PL, 05/2015) Patrycja Podkościelny