View allAll Photos Tagged Conscious
"I was conscious in my mother's womb. Feeling the movements in her body. Aware of my own helpless state. This body bundle of bones is not I. Occasionaly, the darkness of the womb would be dispelled and light would visit me. On one side, I wanted to express myself as a human being, yet, on the other side, I didn't. Because I felt I was a spirit."
|Awake, The life of Yogananda|
There is a specific moment in time that you have been longing for and one morning you will wake up and everything will be new, and even thought you have been working for it, you will think that this is a miracle. Your soul will be dancing and you will have absolutely no reason to justify this inner happiness. It may last for a few seconds, even minutes, as long as giving birth lasts.
I am because I love. I love therefore I am.
N.
...the NEW conscious live...capitalism...
Auctions by order of the court is a very lucrative
business for apartments...especially when they are rented...so, Iam a tenant. wow, I have never seen so many shady buisness people once up like in the last few weeks...my apartment has been sold...95 000 Euro and the new owner use the magic word" home requirements"...he doesent wan`t to live here but it is a legal method ,tenants to throw out and to sell the apartment again for 130 000 or more euro...
"Save Soil, a global movement envisioned by Sadhguru Jaggi seeks to bring about a concerted, conscious response to impending soil extinction."
I'm so thankful for this beautiful world (among so many blessings) and nature"s resilience for all of the green house gasses we pumping into the atmosphere. Like this favorite tree that has endured so long at Bryce Canyon, may we each be more conscious of our actions so that we may individually and collectively preserve and protect this amazing planet we all share.
Almost 6 years ago, I consciously decided to become part of the Foveon legacy! This is the first frame of my Sigma dp3m camera!
Constellation Collaboration
www.flickr.com/photos/listenwave/albums
✨Finding the observer, comes awareness!✨
m.facebook.com/oleg.pivovarchik.1971
Site и
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Location: Edmonton
Model: Kelli
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Hit the L key for a better view. Thanks for the favs and comments. Much appreciated!
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All of my photographs are under copyright ©. None of these photographs may be reproduced and/or used in any way without my permission.
© VanveenJF Photography
generative winds
notation through the ages…
infinite stanzas
*in explore
“...all music was generative before the invention of notation, around the year 1000[CE]. And a generative tradition endured until the middle of the 19th century, when the invention of recording allowed people to hear a piece of music over and over in the same static form. Generative music is actually a return to an earlier way of listening, in which each experience was unique and transient.”
Brian Eno
NYT, 2024
Before my wife and I were dancers, we were listeners. Our youth had been immersed in a soundtrack of swing and jazz--our parents music--until Carl Perkins and Bill Haley came out of nowhere and kicked the door down.
In junior high, we were taught the tedious dance etiquette of the box step. And also that proper posture and spacing and decorum were to be maintained at all times.
Subliminally, we were learning that dance music was bland and unimaginative. Safe. It was simply a permission to go out onto a dance floor and do the socialization shuffle.
So it went until my wife and I became empty-nesters. And then a very unexpected thing happened: We discovered that, as studies have shown, the music you will always return to is the music from when you were about twelve years old.
Eventually we began attending jazz festivals; four days and nights of live bands and soloists. As listeners, we did not know how to dance and were too self-conscious to try. But then we began to notice, as we sat in our seats or at a table spontaneously swaying, tapping, whooping, clapping, that out on the dance floor virtually no one was dancing to the actual music.
Completely oblivious to any sense of rhythm or tempo or phrasing, most partners were either shuffling in place, or working conscientously on the basic step patterns learned at their group lessons, or doing some personally choreographed set piece over and over again, or consulting about which figure to try next so that neither would be surprised.
Live jazz is a generative music. It frames a theme, passes the theme around for a while from soloist to soloist for their personal interpretations and variations and improvisations, and eventually returns to the opening theme before wrapping things up. Everything, including tempo, can be up for grabs, and become esoteric to the extent that, for a listener, it can be almost impossible to know what to expect next. When the night is right and things get really atmospheric, a listener has a very good chance of hearing things they will never, under any circumstances, hear again.
So, if an adept listener can get caught up in generative live jazz, what would be the chances that there was a way to do partnered dance to such music. Spontaneously. Interpretively. On a dime. Like the music, no two dances ever exactly the same. To experience that transcendence when you and your partner are no longer just dancing to the music, you have become the music. To touch for even the briefest of moments that apogee of all dance: Musicality.
Turns out, the chances are pretty good. Graceful spontaneity is possible with nimble feet and fewer than ten stand-alone moves linked in any combination. Maybe a hundred possibilities in the first iteration. If that doesn’t seem like enough, consider the trumpet: Heaven to Hell in three valves. But that is not the story here.
The story here is that bristlecones are exceptional ‘listeners’. And, they have been dancing generatively for millennia. They have a musicality beyond casual calculation. Their ‘music’ is the wind.*
Every branch of a bristlecone has in the neighborhood of ninety needle bundles per inch. Each bundle location is capable of morphing into a branch of that branch; etc, etc, etc. That is a lot of potential moves; both stand-alone and linked. Probably as close to infinite options through incomprehensible time as any living thing ever gets. Fractal. It is why if you have seen one bristlecone...you have seen one bristlecone.
The ‘music’ in this photo comes in over the far ridge in waves; visibly shaping clouds into universal symbols of sound. All the trees dance to essentially the same music, but no two are expressing it in even remotely the same way. They are not solemn pine sentries all in a row. Maybe more like exuberant. Raucous even. Born to be wild.
Generative winds, generative music, generative dance, musicality. It is a spontaneous live performance. An unremitting riff. And when it is over, nothing exactly like it will ever be seen again.
*yes, this would be a generative transition (with, hopefully, a touch of musicality)
Bonus: Ronan the Sea Lion Is Probably Better Than You at Keeping a Beat - The New York Times
All Rights Reserved © 2007 Malaysia
Photograph by Syahrin Aziz, Edited by Me
omg! i freaking love this one! OMG! my idea really works! thanx to Syahrin Aziz too! weeee love it! <3 my fav potrait ever! and best self potrait editing ever!!!! my greatest idea ever! lol (sorry for being too excited)
Feeling self-conscious over some bad decision?
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Pixies dwell in the twilight, between day and night, between the heavens and the earth, between the conscious and the unconscious...
where all things are possible, where our past and future meet, where we meet ourselves coming back. When we dance with the pixies, we dance with the reflections of our true selves and the true nature of the world.
Pixies love to dance. Their music is the most haunting and beautiful ever heard by human ears.
texture by Skeletalmess
and fairy by Faestock
Sunny lane no 74
Anima Series 5
Sitting No. 94
Lismore NSW 2016
In one respect, photography is a reflection. A brief reflection of light particles captured by a film or image sensor.
It is the shadow of someone or something frozen which we can later manipulate at will to produce a work of art, or to preserve a memory, a record of events and places.
Yet everything we choose to photograph is a reflection of us. However subtle, whether consciously or not, it mirrors something about our life or interests.
Often the only thing we know about someone else are the things they reflect.
#AbFav_MY_THEMES_ 💖
#AbFav_PHOTOSTORY
Seahouses, ready for the next trip!
Safety conscious!
A whole industry, for boat, yacht, ship, harbour and ALL the people that have anything to do with it!
From pulleys, to ropes, nets, to oils, buoys... ach, you know it.
Some of it here.
Wishing you all a colourful day, and thank you as always for your time, Magda (*_*)
For more: www.indigo2photography.com
IT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN (BY LAW!!!) TO USE ANY OF MY image or TEXT on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
tools, ropes, buoys, yellow, harbour, pulleys, oils, boat, colour, sea, fishing, buoys, design, horizontal, "NikonD90", "magda indigo"
Aircraft was a Tiger Moth from Bennet Aviation. Registration VH-UZB/A17-272 c/n 291. Year of manufacture: 1941. Aircraft first registered in Australia: 6 August 2009. Previous regos include VH-RSA and VH-RTA. The registration holder and operator as of 2 July 2013 was Bennet Aviation Pty Ltd.
Man killed in Tiger Moth crash on Queensland's Gold Coast, pilot hospitalised
Story by Nick Wiggins and Isobel Roe
"A 58-year-old man was killed when a Tiger Moth biplane crashed on Queensland's Gold Coast, while the plane's 21-year-old pilot was freed from the wreckage and taken to hospital with spinal injuries.
Paramedics were called just before 9:30am (AEST) on Monday morning after the plane crashed on an old airstrip near Pimpama-Jacobs Well Road at Norwell.
The aircraft was found upside down.
An ambulance spokesperson said the 58-year-old man, who was a passenger, had died.
The 21-year-old pilot had to be freed from the wreckage by firefighters.
He was flown to Princess Alexandra Hospital in Brisbane.
Authorities are yet to release details of the person who died.
Paramedic Natasha Adams said the site had been hard to reach and the helicopter had found a track for four-wheel drives to use.
"There was quite a distance from the nearest accessible point to the actual incident," she said.
"The aircraft had landed in a tall grassy area close to a tree line.
"The patient was entrapped by his legs and was hanging outside of the aircraft, and there was a deceased male in the front seat.
"[The 21-year-old] was quite stable in the condition he was in, but he does have critical injuries."
Senior Sergeant Greg Brakes said authorities believed the plane crashed shortly after take-off.
"I know that the plane does some joy flights - I'm not sure if this was a paid-for joy flight or something else," he said.
He said police were called after 9:00am by one of the people in the plane, believed to be the 21-year-old pilot.
"As a result, a short search was conducted before we located the plane," he said.
"Police, fire officers and [Queensland Ambulance Service] attended and located one male person deceased in the plane, and an injured person."
He said the pilot was semi-conscious when authorities arrived.
Senior Sergeant Brakes said the 21-year-old had serious spinal injuries."
Image source and Copyright: ABC News
www.abc.net.au/news/2015-12-28/one-dead-in-light-plane-cr...
Female Rufous Hummingbird taken at Blackie Spit, Surrey, British Columbia, Canada by David.
One that I took a few weeks ago while the computer was down. Shot just before sunset. This is what a hummer blinking looks like for those wondering ;)
David.
Ability is nothing without opportunity.
(N.Bonaparte, ridiculous poseur.)
best laugh large.
shot by pacina.
I'm in Columbus, Ohio to see friends and photo-friends and people I want to be friends with, who I know because we've published their photos over at The Photographic Journal.
Okay, so that's the set-up, but Maika...it's convoluted, but Maika is Sylvie's mother, and Sylvie is one of Kate's models, and Kate was the photographer-in-residence for The Photographic Journal in three years.
AND they all live in Columbus, but so did some friends of mine, friends not involved in photography in any way, I met those folks through comics, waaaay back in the early 2000s, different lifetime...maybe two lifetimes ago.
I've got hotel points through a credit card, so I get a free hotel room for my visit, gotta shoot in a hotel room...I actually don't know why that's a Must in my head, hotel rooms...I don't love shooting in hotel rooms, now that I actually think about it. Aesthetically, they're inert, this one actually had a conference table in it, very strange.
But I'm in a hotel room so I have to shoot, so I ask Sylvie, because I've seen how well Kate and her work together, I ask if she'd like to shoot, and she says yes and Also asks if I'd like her mom to come with, because Kate's also photographed her mom.
This is Maika, Sylvie's mom! What a face! She was a delight, adored her energy, became instantly mad that she didn't live in LA so I could shoot her all the time, she's one of those people.
There are people out there, I'd shoot them all the time because they were so much fun to hang out with, and Maika is 100% one of those people.
Had to actually stay conscious of the fact that it was Sylvie I'd asked to shoot with, give equal time to the both of them, this is nothing against Sylvie, who was indeed a fantastic model, but her mom was right around my age, there was more kibitzing to be done amongst two people of the same generation, that's just a fact.
Another fact: the light in the hotel room was pretty good. It was weird, too much furniture, the walls were boring, but I did enjoy that light.
I am the selfish one, an ignorant, toxic, a mess, naïve and stupid retard, attention whore, narcissistic passive aggressive manipulative cunt, borderline impulsive, without self-respect.
I am guilty.
I got lost. I became a live experiment of mixing drugs with alcohol over a long period of time. My behavior changed drastically. I hurt people. I hurt myself. Yet I believed in friendship, love and understanding. I shouldn’t though. Cause when you are all that, you simply don’t deserve it. Things that were real become a lie.
I am the one to blame.
Pete told me last night that he'd gained ten pounds since we met. Of course I told him that #1, he's The Hawt and always will be and #2 it's not noticeable.
I also told him if he ended up weighing 300 pounds, he would just be my Homer. Or I'd be his Lois (hmmm... which is hotter? Marge or Lois?) He's gorgeous inside and out. If you know me IRL, you know how absolutely much I adore him.
It lead to this conversation about how we view ourselves and each other, how we worry about being attractive for the other person.
And that got me thinking about all the little things I'm afraid (and sometimes sure) he notices about me. (chest too small, tummy too large...)
Lasalle falls only drops about 20 feet, but damn it's a powerful cascade that has to be treated carefully, especially when the rocks are wet.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is paying an unexpected call on her parents whilst her mistress is away enjoying the distractions of the London Season. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house.
“Mum!” Edith calls out cheerily as she opens the unlocked front door and walks in. “Mum, it’s me!”
“Edith!” Ada gasps in delighted surprise, glancing up to the door leading from the hallway into the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting you. What a lovely surprise!”
Ada rises from her chair at the worn kitchen table and embraces her daughter lovingly. Holding her at arm’s length, she admires her three-quarter length black coat and purple rose and black feather decorated straw hat. “Look at you, my darling girl.” The older woman self-consciously pushes loose strands of her mousey brown hair back behind her ears. Chuckling awkwardly, she remarks with a downwards glance. “You’re far too fancy for the likes of us now, Edith.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Mum!” Edith dismisses her mother’s comment with a flap of her hand. "My coat came from a Petticoat Lane* second-hand clothes stall. I picked it up dead cheap and remodelled it myself.”
“Taking after your old Mum then?” Ada remarks with a hint of pride.
“You taught me everything I know about sewing, Mum, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”
The joyful smile suddenly fades from Ada’s face as it clouds in concern. “But it’s Tuesday today. You don’t have Tuesdays off. Is everything alright, love?”
“It’s fine, Mum.” Edith assures her mother, placing a calming hand on her mother’s shoulder with one hand as she places her basket on the crowded kitchen table with the other. “Miss Lettice has gone to stay with friends on the Isle of Wight for Cowes Week**, so I thought I’d pop in and visit since I have a bit of free time whilst she’s away.”
“Oh! That’s alright then!” the older woman sighs with relief, fanning herself as she lowers herself back into her seat.
Feeling the stuffiness in the room from the lighted range and the moisture from the steaming tubs of washing, Edith takes off her coat and hangs it on a hook by the back door. She then places her hat on one of the carved knobs of the ladderback chair drawn up to the table next to her mother’s usual seat.
“Oh don’t put it there, love.” Ada chides. “It might get damaged. Such a pretty hat should sit on the table where it’s safe.”
“It’s nothing special, Mum. This came from Petticoat Lane too, and it’s not new. I decorated the hat with bits and bobs I picked up from a Whitechapel haberdasher Miss Lettice’s char***, Mrs. Boothby, told me about.”
“Well, homemade or not, it’s too pretty to hang there.”
“It’s my hat, Mum, and I promise you, it’ll be fine there.
“Well, suit yourself, love. Anyway, your timing is perfect. I just filled Brown Betty****. Grab yourself a cup and bring over the biscuit tin. Your Dad will be home for lunch soon. He’ll be glad to see you.”
Edith walks over to the big, dark Welsh dresser that dominates one side of the tiny kitchen and picks up a pretty floral teacup and saucer from among the mismatched crockery on its shelves: one of her mother’s many market finds that helped to bring elegance and beauty to Edith’s childhood home. She looks fondly at the battered McVitie and Price’s tin. “How’s Dad?”
“Oh, things are looking up for him.” Ada says proudly as she flips open her large sewing basket and fossicks through it looking for a spool of brightly coloured blue cotton thread.
“Oh?” Edith queries.
“Yes, there’s talk of him being made a line manager. Isn’t that a turn up for the books?”
“Oh Mum! That’s wonderful news.” The younger woman enthuses as she puts the empty teacup, saucer and biscuit tin on the table and sits down next to her mother. “You might be finally able to pack all this in.” She waves her hand about the kitchen at the tubs of washing, drying laundry and pressed linens.
“Oh I don’t know about that, Edith. Anyway, I have built up a good reputation over the years.”
“Yes,” Edith remarks scornfully. “For charging too little for the excellent work you do.” She looks over, past her mother, to a neat pile of lace edged linens. “What’s that you’re doing now, Mum?”
“Oh it’s just some work for Mrs. Hounslow. She wants her new sheets and pillowcases monogrammed.”
“And how much are you, not being paid, for that, Mum?” Edith emphasises.
“Oh Edith! Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”
“I know, Mum. I’ve grown up hearing about how Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War. But I’ve never heard of her scraping for a penny for a scrap to eat. And where are those pretty lace trimmed sheets from?”
“Bishop’s in the High Street.”
“See! No second-hand sheets for old Widow Hounslow!”
“Now I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada wags her finger admonishingly at her daughter before selecting a needle from the red cotton lined lid of her basket and threads it. “She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings over the years. You should be grateful to her.”
“Pshaw!” Edith raises her eyes to the ceiling above. “I wish you’d let me help out more, Mum. I live in, so I don’t have the expenses of lodgings, and Miss Lettice pays me well.”
“Now, I won’t hear of it, Edith.” Ada raises her palms to her daughter, still clutching the threaded needle between her right index finger and thumb. “You earned that money with hard work at Miss Chetwynd’s. You pay enough to help keep us as it is.”
“But Mum,” Edith pours tea into her mother’s and then her own teacup. “If Dad does get this better job at McVitie’s, and I paid you a bit more of my wage, you probably really could give up washing, sewing and mending for the likes of Mrs. Hounslow.”
“And then what would I do, Edith?” The older woman adds a dash of milk to her tea.
“Well, you might like to put your feet up for a bit or buy a few nice new things for around here. Get rid of our battered old breadbin and those cannisters.” She points to the offending worn white enamel green trimmed pieces on the dresser.
“Oh, so we’re not grand enough then, Miss Edith?” Ada says in mock offence as she looks down her nose at her daughter and she raises herself and sits a little more erectly in her seat. “I love my breadbin thank you very much. That was a wedding gift from your Aunt Maude.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Edith replies, shaking her head exasperatedly. Adding milk and sugar to her own tea she continues, “I just want you to have nice things, Mum: things like those I have at Miss Lettice’s.”
“I’m so pleased you like it there, love.” Ada places a careworn hand lovingly on top of her daughter’s.
“Oh Mum, it’s so much better than Mrs. Plaistow’s was. It’s so much smaller than their townhouse, and I don’t have to traipse up and down stairs all day. There’s a gas stove, so I don’t have to fetch coal in or blacklead grates. Even if there were, Miss Lettice has Mrs. Boothby do all the hard graft I used to have to do at the Plaistow’s.”
“And Miss Chetwynd? She’s still being good to you?”
“Yes Mum.” Edith takes a sip of her tea. “I still haven’t broken her of the habit of just waltzing into the kitchen whenever she feels like it, rather than ringing the bell.”
“And her, a lord’s daughter.” Ada tuts, shaking her head.
“Well, a Viscount’s daughter at any rate.”
“You think she’d know better.”
“I’m sure she’s different when she goes home to Wiltshire. It does sound like a very grand house.”
“So much grander than here, Edith.”
“Now don’t start again, Mum. You know I didn’t mean anything by what I said before. Anyway. I have a something for you, but I shan’t give it to you if you’re going to be contrary!” Edith teases.
“Contrary indeed!” Ada snorts derisively.
Edith takes a bulky parcel wrapped in cream butcher’s paper tied up with brightly coloured string from her basket and places it carefully on the table before her mother.
“Well what is it?” Ada asks in surprise.
“Why don’t you open it, Mum, and find out.” Edith replies playfully in return.
With trembling fingers Ada tugs at the knot in the string. Loosening it causes the protective layer of paper to fall noisily away to reveal a beautiful, glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid.
“Oh Edith, love!” gasps Ada. “It’s beautiful!”
“Since you won’t let me give you more money, I may as well buy you some nice things Mum!”
“Oh this must have cost a fortune!” Ada appraises the paintwork on the pot. “For shame, Edith! You shouldn’t have spent your money on me.”
“Nonsense Mum! I bought this at the Caledonian Markets***** where it was so reasonably priced as it was on its own and didn’t have the milk jug and sugar bowl to match. Do you like it?”
“Like it, Edith? Oh, I love it!” Ada hugs her daughter, batting her eyelids as she attempts to keep back the tears of appreciation and joy.
“Good! Then we can have tea out of this, rather than old Brown Betty!”
“What?” Ada cries. “Oh no, I can’t well do that! This teapot is far too nice to use everyday! There’s nothing wrong with Brown Betty. Brown Betty was your Great Grandma’s!” She runs her hand lovingly over the handle of the pot. “No, I’ll keep this pot for good. I’ll take it up to the parlour and we’ll use it on Christmas Day, when you and your brother are home.”
“Oh Mum!” Edith sighs, shaking her head in loving despair at her mother who beams with delight at her new present.
*Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
**Cowes Week is one of the longest-running regular regattas in the world, and a fixture of the London Season. With forty daily sailing races, up to one thousand boats, and eight thousand competitors ranging from Olympic and world-class professionals to weekend sailors, it is the largest sailing regatta of its kind in the world. Having started in 1826, the event is held in August each year on the Solent (the area of water between southern England and the Isle of Wight made tricky by strong double tides). It is focussed on the small town of Cowes on the Isle of Wight.
***A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
****A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.
***** The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.
This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The central focus of our story, sitting on Ada’s table, is the cottage ware teapot. Made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched rood and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics.
Surrounding the cottage ware teapot are non-matching teacups, saucers, a milk jug and sugar bowl, all of which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. The Brown Betty teapot in the foreground came from The Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.
Sitting atop a stack of neatly folded 1:12 size linens sits Ada’s wicker sewing basket. Sitting open it has needles stuck into the padded lid, whilst inside it are a tape measure, knitting needles, balls of wool, reels of cotton and a pair of shears. All the items and the basket, except for the shears, are hand made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. The taupe knitting on the two long pins that serve as knitting needles is properly knitted and cast on. The shears with black handles in the basket open and close. Made of metal, they came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. The blue cotton reel and silver sewing scissors come from an E-Bay stockist of miniatures based in the United Kingdom.
Sitting on the table in the foreground is a McVitie and Price’s Small Petite Beurre Biscuits tin, containing a selection of different biscuits. The biscuits were made by hand of polymer clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. McVitie's (Originally McVitie and Price) is a British snack food brand owned by United Biscuits. The name derives from the original Scottish biscuit maker, McVitie and Price, Ltd., established in 1830 on Rose Street in Edinburgh, Scotland. The company moved to various sites in the city before completing the St. Andrews Biscuit Works factory on Robertson Avenue in the Gorgie district in 1888. The company also established one in Glasgow and two large manufacturing plants south of the border, in Heaton Chapel, Stockport, and Harlesden, London (where Edith’s father works). McVitie and Price's first major biscuit was the McVitie's Digestive, created in 1892 by a new young employee at the company named Alexander Grant, who later became the managing director of the company. The biscuit was given its name because it was thought that its high baking soda content served as an aid to food digestion. The McVitie's Chocolate Homewheat Digestive was created in 1925. Although not their core operation, McVitie's were commissioned in 1893 to create a wedding cake for the royal wedding between the Duke of York and Princess Mary, who subsequently became King George V and Queen Mary. This cake was over two metres high and cost one hundred and forty guineas. It was viewed by 14,000 and was a wonderful publicity for the company. They received many commissions for royal wedding cakes and christening cakes, including the wedding cake for Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Phillip and Prince William and Catherine Middleton. Under United Biscuits McVitie's holds a Royal Warrant from Queen Elizabeth II.
Also on Ada’s table in the foreground there are several packets of Edwardian cleaning and laundry brands that were in common use in the early Twentieth Century in every household, rich or poor. These are Sunlight Soap, Robin’s Starch, Jumbo Blue and Imp Washer Soap. All these packets were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884 by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.
Before the invention of aerosol spray starch, the product of choice in many homes of all classes was Robin starch. Robin Starch was a stiff white powder like cornflour to which water had to be added. When you made up the solution, it was gloopy, sticky with powdery lumps, just like wallpaper paste or grout. The garment was immersed evenly in that mixture and then it had to be smoothed out. All the stubborn starchy lumps had to be dissolved until they were eliminated – a metal spoon was good for bashing at the lumps to break them down. Robins Starch was produced by Reckitt and Sons who were a leading British manufacturer of household products, notably starch, black lead, laundry blue, and household polish. They also produced Jumbo Blue, which was a whitener added to a wash to help delay the yellowing effect of older cotton. Rekitt and Sons were based in Kingston upon Hull. Isaac Reckitt began business in Hull in 1840, and his business became a private company Isaac Reckitt and Sons in 1879, and a public company in 1888. The company expanded through the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. It merged with a major competitor in the starch market J. and J. Colman in 1938 to form Reckitt and Colman.
Imp Washer Soap was manufactured by T. H. Harris and Sons Limited, a soap manufacturers, tallow melters and bone boiler. Introduced after the Great War, Imp Washer Soap was a cheaper alternative to the more popular brands like Sunlight, Hudsons and Lifebuoy soaps. Imp Washer Soap was advertised as a free lathering and economical cleaner. T. H. Harris and Sons Limited also sold Mazo soap energiser which purported to improve the quality of cleaning power of existing soaps.
Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.
In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I recently acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite and some Oxo stock cubes. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.
Robert Andrew Macfie sugar refiner was the first person to use the term term Golden Syrup in 1840, a product made by his factory, the Macfie sugar refinery, in Liverpool. He also produced black treacle.
P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.
The American based Heinz food processing company, famous for its Baked Beans, 57 varieties of soups and tinend spaghetti opened a factory in Harlesden in 1919, providing a great deal of employment for the locals who were not already employed at McVitie and Price.
Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.
Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.
The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).
Part of a series.
Starring : Alice
Makeup : Lisa Chiu
I don't normally uses this kind of colour, i wanted to try something new.
So word on the street is that Flickr is turning 21! Happy birthday Flickr! Just remember to drink responsibly ;)
In honor of they're birthday, they're holding a 21 day photo challenge, where each day has a theme. And I wanted to try and participate. I might not be able to do all of them, but I'll give it a shot!
Today's theme was BOLD.
So... doing photos like this, where I have to actually pose and pay attention to my body are usually incredibly uncomfortable for me. I actually had to kick Kevin out of the house in order to get this because I was so self self conscious. If you know me in real life, you know I tend to be a bit stiff in front of the camera. Heck, I hardly am in front of the camera. But I'm really proud of how it turned out.
I was very conscious of the open window looking onto the driveway when taking these photos, so had to rush taking them. Some of the detailing looks amazingly fresh on this car, the exhaust looks barely used for example. Streetview from 2008 onwards show it moving around the driveway, maybe signs of an impending restoration?