View allAll Photos Tagged afraid
We had ground fog and lasers coming out of the flower bed with some gravestones and Crime Scene Tape and a Fire and Ice Light for extra illumination. Plus there were several motion activated scary things, the black cat would howl and the pop up guy in the coffin was right at the door. Kevin was a mad scientist so they weren't afraid of him but I was a doctor with blood ALL over me and a giant glowing needle sticking out of my pocket.
Yesterday someone asked me if I wasn't afraid when getting home and oppening the entrance door, since my building is quite large and I don't exactely know any of the neighbours. I said I didn't. Little did that person know that I've been thinking about my neighbours. I've been living here for almost six months and still I feel I'm a stranger to them. I hardly see any of them. Sometimes we share the elevator, exgange polite conversation. On an ocasion a couple of them actually visited our home for a brief moment. But that's it. How do you connect to people whose face isn't carved in your memory yet? How do you reach out? How can you get in touch, especially in a kind of frigid culture? These questions and some others have been dancing in my head for some time now... I remember how easy it was during the 14 years my family and I lived in Lisbon. It was a small building. Everyone knew each other. One of my teachers had an office there. The old ladies asked how we were doing in school and they had us over for a hot cup of milk and cookies when it was raining outside and we had forgotten our keys. They showed us their picture albums. I feel nostalgic just thinking about it. There were connections. People spoke of deep and intimate struggles and joys in their lives.
I believe we are where we are for a reason. In some aspects I'm still trying to figure out what's the reason I'm here for. And you? Are you hapilly connected?
Cathedral, Ely, Cambridgeshire
I used to be afraid of going back to Ely. So many of the memories from the first twenty years of my life are bound up with this place. I still want to step off the bus or train and find that it is still the early 1970s, to wander around the market with my granny, or go to my other grandparents' house in Chiefs Street for dinner before wandering off into the shops to spend my pocket money. But they are all dead now, and although many of my aunts, uncles and cousins still live in and around the city, I have no direct connection with Ely any more.
I was born here, and I still feel a sense of ownership. It is still the touchstone for our family - my children still think of Ely, in a strange way, as where their story started.
And in fact, Ely hasn't changed that much. There are still plenty of independent shops in High Street, Fore Hill and Market Street, there are still lots of the old pubs, the Thursday market is still busy with people who have come in from the Fens on buses, and talk exactly like my grandparents. I was shocked to see that they have pulled down Cutlacks the ironmongers, and I mourn the passing of the cattle market, although that, of course, could be said for many small country towns.
Is there another Cathedral city in England where the cathedral is so utterly entwined with the streets which huddle around it? There are no other tall buildings, apart from the spire of St Mary's church. The Cathedral west tower is always there, peeping above the rooftops, wherever you look towards it.
Ely is a city, and the Isle of Ely was a proud, independent county, but neither of these mean anything now, and neither of them have any political purpose any more. Today, Ely is merely the largest place served by East Cambridgeshire District Council, a completely meaningless division of the overgrown county of Cambridgeshire. I was born in the Grange Maternity Home, some 200 yards from the Cathedral's west tower; today, it is the headquarters of East Cambridgeshire District Council.
The biggest difference from twenty years ago is how quiet the streets are - they used to be so traffic-choked, but today Ely is bypassed.
And another thing which has changed is the Lamb Hotel. This is one of those grand coaching inns you often find in small country towns. When I was little, it was dead posh - we would never have gone in there. I always associate it with wedding receptions and commercial travellers. But today, we found it was a very pleasant place to stop for lunch.
Anyone coming back to Ely after half a century away might find the gentrification of the waterside area remarkable. This was where my father was born in the 1930s, in a cheerful slum of barefoot children. Today, the houses are sought after by young professionals - the walk to the station is a couple of minutes, and we are only twenty mimutes by train from the city of Cambridge.
Ely Cathedral is architecturally one of the most magnificent buildings in England. The view from the south-east is world famous, as is the lantern tower. But the interior is rather dull, despite the wonderful unbroken vista down what is England's longest cathedral. Apart from the architecture, very little of medieval origin survives - there is a small cluster of stained glass in one chapel, and the stone carvings of the beautiful lady chapel, but that is about all. The narrow Norman aisles, with their grey, oppressive vaulting, are not really a pleasure to walk, and there are no cloisters. And while the lady chapel is breathtaking, is it any more magnificent than a dozen or more East Anglian churches - Salle, Walpole St Peter or Blythburgh, for example? Ironically, Ely is one of the few English cathedrals which charges an entrance fee, a whacking £5.50 (Lincoln, a much more important and beautiful interior, charges £4, while Norwich and Peterborough, the other two great medieval Cathedrals in this corner of England, are completely free).
I remember how the great west doorway and the north transept doorway would stand open during the day. As a child, I would leave my grandparents house in Chiefs Street, and walk the length of the nave and out through the transept to get to the market place. Everybody used the Cathedral to get from one part of this tiny, beautiful city to another, just as their ancestors and predecessors had for hundreds and hundreds of years. But no longer.
Don't be afraid to Note or Comment
//Archives.....//
//Files.....//
//#52353.....//
//Opening....//
//Major Mikeal...//
//Log # 150//
McGreggor sprinted towords us. Sophie didn't notice at first, but she turned her head to see him. her face lit up like a christmas tree. she jumped up from the spot she had sat, and ran towords him. She jumped in his arms. they held each other for a split second and then probally realized they where being watched by us.
"Ha..uh sorry bout that" she giggled.
"So McGreggor, how the hell are we getting out of here?" I asked him
"I just sent out the signal for an Evac. They should be here any secon-" He was cut off by the roaring of jets over head. We all looked up to see a transport slowly decending towords us.
"Hey fella's!, heard you need a transport" the comm snapped with the voice of our driver, I could make out His APC strapped to the bottom of the transport. The comm snapped again, The driver was about to say something but was cut off by the barking of spots
"Damnit Dog! not now. Sorry about that, I gave him a treat an hour ago and now he won't stop begging. " he said
We all laughed as he slowly came into our area. Out of nowhere a Rocket Shot from a block or so away. the driver whipped the transport left and barely escaped it.
"Uh Guys, If we are going to do this we gotta do it NOW, and I mean right now!" He shouted.
I could hear the small amount of fear in his voice, he probably needed a change of pants too. He came in fast, almost too fast but he leveled it out at the last moment. Another Rocket shot by him. The lower platform started to decend to us from the bottom of the ship. we each grabbed onto the four wires and I flipped the switch. We where almost home free, but the platform was too heavy, it was moving slower then usual.
From down the block I could see EC troops assembeling and getting ready to fire. A few bullits strayed the ship. I looked down to see Red army forces pileling out off the staircase we had came out of. The same RASF major was leading the charge.
"holy hell, What are those things?" The Lost batalion boy yelled.
I looked around and spotted what he was talking about. It was a full squad of Grustegs. Thier heavy steel boots clanked on the concrete sidewalks. They opened fire with Large caliber machine guns. I could almost hear the demonic laughter that bellowed out of thier mechanical voice-box's. They tore through the EC ranks like butter.
the platform finaly locked into place and gave us the cover of the ship. Olaf slild the door open and began to lay fire with his Grenade launcher. Grapes followed and began to pick off EC sharpshooters on the roofs.
"Alright close the door" I said as we accended into the sky. I looked down to see Smoke bellowing from the mouth of the hive world. And I hoped to never see it again.
//Log end.....
I'm afraid this is proof that love is indeed very blind. This afternoon Dambo climbed upon a box in the kitchen to declare his love to these soft, round faces. We all know that opposites attract, so who knows how this fresh love affair will develop ....
Don't be afraid of extreme temperatures! Thanks to these high performance Glacier boots from Sorel, your feet will remain warm and dry, no matter the weather! Fans of polar hikes and Eskimo style will love them!
DragonCon 2009 Atlanta, GA
Dragon*Con 2009
Check back often for more updates. I have A LOT more photos and will be updating over the next couple of days. If you see yourself please feel free to contact me for a hi-res(free so don't be afraid to ask).
dinanm3atl at gmail dot com
It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
who cannot seem to give
and the soul afraid of dying
that never learns to live
- Bette Midler
A Multi Media Performance by Rhodri Hugh Thomas in Collaboration With Carolina Vasquez Based on the poem and art work “Who’s Afraid?” by Susan Richardson and Pat Gregory. First performance in the Willow Theatre. Photo by Mathew Talfan
Cathedral, Ely, Cambridgeshire
I used to be afraid of going back to Ely. So many of the memories from the first twenty years of my life are bound up with this place. I still want to step off the bus or train and find that it is still the early 1970s, to wander around the market with my granny, or go to my other grandparents' house in Chiefs Street for dinner before wandering off into the shops to spend my pocket money. But they are all dead now, and although many of my aunts, uncles and cousins still live in and around the city, I have no direct connection with Ely any more.
I was born here, and I still feel a sense of ownership. It is still the touchstone for our family - my children still think of Ely, in a strange way, as where their story started.
And in fact, Ely hasn't changed that much. There are still plenty of independent shops in High Street, Fore Hill and Market Street, there are still lots of the old pubs, the Thursday market is still busy with people who have come in from the Fens on buses, and talk exactly like my grandparents. I was shocked to see that they have pulled down Cutlacks the ironmongers, and I mourn the passing of the cattle market, although that, of course, could be said for many small country towns.
Is there another Cathedral city in England where the cathedral is so utterly entwined with the streets which huddle around it? There are no other tall buildings, apart from the spire of St Mary's church. The Cathedral west tower is always there, peeping above the rooftops, wherever you look towards it.
Ely is a city, and the Isle of Ely was a proud, independent county, but neither of these mean anything now, and neither of them have any political purpose any more. Today, Ely is merely the largest place served by East Cambridgeshire District Council, a completely meaningless division of the overgrown county of Cambridgeshire. I was born in the Grange Maternity Home, some 200 yards from the Cathedral's west tower; today, it is the headquarters of East Cambridgeshire District Council.
The biggest difference from twenty years ago is how quiet the streets are - they used to be so traffic-choked, but today Ely is bypassed.
And another thing which has changed is the Lamb Hotel. This is one of those grand coaching inns you often find in small country towns. When I was little, it was dead posh - we would never have gone in there. I always associate it with wedding receptions and commercial travellers. But today, we found it was a very pleasant place to stop for lunch.
Anyone coming back to Ely after half a century away might find the gentrification of the waterside area remarkable. This was where my father was born in the 1930s, in a cheerful slum of barefoot children. Today, the houses are sought after by young professionals - the walk to the station is a couple of minutes, and we are only twenty mimutes by train from the city of Cambridge.
Ely Cathedral is architecturally one of the most magnificent buildings in England. The view from the south-east is world famous, as is the lantern tower. But the interior is rather dull, despite the wonderful unbroken vista down what is England's longest cathedral. Apart from the architecture, very little of medieval origin survives - there is a small cluster of stained glass in one chapel, and the stone carvings of the beautiful lady chapel, but that is about all. The narrow Norman aisles, with their grey, oppressive vaulting, are not really a pleasure to walk, and there are no cloisters. And while the lady chapel is breathtaking, is it any more magnificent than a dozen or more East Anglian churches - Salle, Walpole St Peter or Blythburgh, for example? Ironically, Ely is one of the few English cathedrals which charges an entrance fee, a whacking £5.50 (Lincoln, a much more important and beautiful interior, charges £4, while Norwich and Peterborough, the other two great medieval Cathedrals in this corner of England, are completely free).
I remember how the great west doorway and the north transept doorway would stand open during the day. As a child, I would leave my grandparents house in Chiefs Street, and walk the length of the nave and out through the transept to get to the market place. Everybody used the Cathedral to get from one part of this tiny, beautiful city to another, just as their ancestors and predecessors had for hundreds and hundreds of years. But no longer.
Pat Attah, Rita Dominic, Tchidi Chikere
For more in detailed reviews check out Nollywood Forever Blog
As it has been said by others, primarily a couple TG webcomic creators out there, "The best lies are based upon truth."
For this one, I drew my inspiration off a picture from dj bridget that was up on flickr a while ago (no longer - you snooze, you lose - She's a bona-fide collector's item, I'm just one of several thousand copies of an over-produced common popular character that's still turning up on eBay, but not fetching much. ^_^;), where she was sporting a rather nice outfit, but showing off a look that could be best described as a "deer in the headlights" look - The look one of us has when they've been caught by someone who doesn't know they dress up.
And so, the story begins - For some of you, it happened when your significant other walked in on you. For some, maybe it was a roommate. For just about all of us somewhere around the beginning of this journey, it's been a family member, most likely your parents, who came home early, and caught you in the act of expressing your more beautiful side.
You got careless, complacent. You let down your guard. Perhaps it took you longer than you thought to get dolled up and ready. Or even worse still, plans changed or were canceled, and one (or both) of your parents came home early.
Perhaps it was the sound of the garage door opening that lulled you out of your moment. Or, even worse, you heard the front door, or the door from the garage into the family room open.
At that moment, you're wracked with an all-too-impending sense of fear. Your world is about to be turned upside down and inside out. If you had the power, you'd pray for time to stop. You'd give anything to have super-human speed, just to get out of your pretty outfit, hide the wig, the jewelry, scrub off the makeup, perhaps eradicate the fragrance you were wearing.
Alas, it's too late for you. You hear the footsteps down the hall, and the doorknob turn, or, if you didn't close your door all the way, it's starting to open, and you damn near twist your ankle trying to get to the door while still wearing your high heels, in a vain effort to hold it closed. But, it's too late.
The door opens...
You've been caught....
It's the nightmare you've dreaded. Your parents never knew, and you're at a loss for words to explain...
The familiar feelings of shame and guilt are building up inside of you...
A look of shock, non-comprehension, a lack of understanding.
"What the?! ________, what are you DOING?! WHY are you dressed up like THAT?!"
"HOW LONG have you been doing this?! A year? Two years? Longer?!"
"What if... What if the neighbors found out?! Oh, if your dad knew about this, it would just kill him!"
"Do you know what you're doing is a SIN?!"
"Do you want your friends to think you're gay?! You're not gay, are you? Please tell me you're not gay!"
"I want you to get out of those clothes NOW!! GO!! Wipe that stuff off your face! No son of mine is going to be a transvestite, damnit!"
Maybe you've been meaning to tell your parents at some point or other, but you never had the time, or you've been too afraid to tell them. In any case, you were caught, giving in to what you wanted to do, what you had to do, and your chance to make them understand just got blown to hell. There's no way on Earth they'll ever be able to understand.
So, you get better at hiding it. You wait for times when you know they're going to be gone for hours. You long for them to go on a trip by themselves for a few days. You've practiced applying makeup until you can get a look together in 30, maybe 45 minutes. You find creative places to stash your "other" wardrobe, perhaps renting public storage somewhere.
Still... You're on your guard. You can never be truly comfortable, not as long as you're not yet out on your own.
We've all been there at some point or other starting out... Right?
Welcome to Act II, where the road to independence is a journey that's unlike any you've taken before, but it is a journey that you have to take, and you're taking the first few steps...
(I'm serious, I don't have that collectible value. Moreover, a figure of me would most likely be used in some kind of "Chibi Project" torture test. ^_^;)
Cathedral, Ely, Cambridgeshire
I used to be afraid of going back to Ely. So many of the memories from the first twenty years of my life are bound up with this place. I still want to step off the bus or train and find that it is still the early 1970s, to wander around the market with my granny, or go to my other grandparents' house in Chiefs Street for dinner before wandering off into the shops to spend my pocket money. But they are all dead now, and although many of my aunts, uncles and cousins still live in and around the city, I have no direct connection with Ely any more.
I was born here, and I still feel a sense of ownership. It is still the touchstone for our family - my children still think of Ely, in a strange way, as where their story started.
And in fact, Ely hasn't changed that much. There are still plenty of independent shops in High Street, Fore Hill and Market Street, there are still lots of the old pubs, the Thursday market is still busy with people who have come in from the Fens on buses, and talk exactly like my grandparents. I was shocked to see that they have pulled down Cutlacks the ironmongers, and I mourn the passing of the cattle market, although that, of course, could be said for many small country towns.
Is there another Cathedral city in England where the cathedral is so utterly entwined with the streets which huddle around it? There are no other tall buildings, apart from the spire of St Mary's church. The Cathedral west tower is always there, peeping above the rooftops, wherever you look towards it.
Ely is a city, and the Isle of Ely was a proud, independent county, but neither of these mean anything now, and neither of them have any political purpose any more. Today, Ely is merely the largest place served by East Cambridgeshire District Council, a completely meaningless division of the overgrown county of Cambridgeshire. I was born in the Grange Maternity Home, some 200 yards from the Cathedral's west tower; today, it is the headquarters of East Cambridgeshire District Council.
The biggest difference from twenty years ago is how quiet the streets are - they used to be so traffic-choked, but today Ely is bypassed.
And another thing which has changed is the Lamb Hotel. This is one of those grand coaching inns you often find in small country towns. When I was little, it was dead posh - we would never have gone in there. I always associate it with wedding receptions and commercial travellers. But today, we found it was a very pleasant place to stop for lunch.
Anyone coming back to Ely after half a century away might find the gentrification of the waterside area remarkable. This was where my father was born in the 1930s, in a cheerful slum of barefoot children. Today, the houses are sought after by young professionals - the walk to the station is a couple of minutes, and we are only twenty mimutes by train from the city of Cambridge.
Ely Cathedral is architecturally one of the most magnificent buildings in England. The view from the south-east is world famous, as is the lantern tower. But the interior is rather dull, despite the wonderful unbroken vista down what is England's longest cathedral. Apart from the architecture, very little of medieval origin survives - there is a small cluster of stained glass in one chapel, and the stone carvings of the beautiful lady chapel, but that is about all. The narrow Norman aisles, with their grey, oppressive vaulting, are not really a pleasure to walk, and there are no cloisters. And while the lady chapel is breathtaking, is it any more magnificent than a dozen or more East Anglian churches - Salle, Walpole St Peter or Blythburgh, for example? Ironically, Ely is one of the few English cathedrals which charges an entrance fee, a whacking £5.50 (Lincoln, a much more important and beautiful interior, charges £4, while Norwich and Peterborough, the other two great medieval Cathedrals in this corner of England, are completely free).
I remember how the great west doorway and the north transept doorway would stand open during the day. As a child, I would leave my grandparents house in Chiefs Street, and walk the length of the nave and out through the transept to get to the market place. Everybody used the Cathedral to get from one part of this tiny, beautiful city to another, just as their ancestors and predecessors had for hundreds and hundreds of years. But no longer.
"Go be that starving Artist you’re afraid to be. Open up that journal and get poetic finally. Volunteer. Suck it up and travel. You were not born here to work and pay taxes. You were put here to be part of a vast organism to explore and create. Stop putting it off. The world has much more to offer than what’s on 15 televisions at TGI Fridays. Take pictures. Scare people. Shake up the scene. Be the change you want to see in the world. You’ll thank yourself for it."
Yes. Exactly what I needed to read after the week I've had, and I hope it helps you as well. <3
Berlino, DEU - Nouveau realisme und zero - Who's Afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue IV (1969/70) by Barnett Newman (1905-1970)
Cathedral, Ely, Cambridgeshire
I used to be afraid of going back to Ely. So many of the memories from the first twenty years of my life are bound up with this place. I still want to step off the bus or train and find that it is still the early 1970s, to wander around the market with my granny, or go to my other grandparents' house in Chiefs Street for dinner before wandering off into the shops to spend my pocket money. But they are all dead now, and although many of my aunts, uncles and cousins still live in and around the city, I have no direct connection with Ely any more.
I was born here, and I still feel a sense of ownership. It is still the touchstone for our family - my children still think of Ely, in a strange way, as where their story started.
And in fact, Ely hasn't changed that much. There are still plenty of independent shops in High Street, Fore Hill and Market Street, there are still lots of the old pubs, the Thursday market is still busy with people who have come in from the Fens on buses, and talk exactly like my grandparents. I was shocked to see that they have pulled down Cutlacks the ironmongers, and I mourn the passing of the cattle market, although that, of course, could be said for many small country towns.
Is there another Cathedral city in England where the cathedral is so utterly entwined with the streets which huddle around it? There are no other tall buildings, apart from the spire of St Mary's church. The Cathedral west tower is always there, peeping above the rooftops, wherever you look towards it.
Ely is a city, and the Isle of Ely was a proud, independent county, but neither of these mean anything now, and neither of them have any political purpose any more. Today, Ely is merely the largest place served by East Cambridgeshire District Council, a completely meaningless division of the overgrown county of Cambridgeshire. I was born in the Grange Maternity Home, some 200 yards from the Cathedral's west tower; today, it is the headquarters of East Cambridgeshire District Council.
The biggest difference from twenty years ago is how quiet the streets are - they used to be so traffic-choked, but today Ely is bypassed.
And another thing which has changed is the Lamb Hotel. This is one of those grand coaching inns you often find in small country towns. When I was little, it was dead posh - we would never have gone in there. I always associate it with wedding receptions and commercial travellers. But today, we found it was a very pleasant place to stop for lunch.
Anyone coming back to Ely after half a century away might find the gentrification of the waterside area remarkable. This was where my father was born in the 1930s, in a cheerful slum of barefoot children. Today, the houses are sought after by young professionals - the walk to the station is a couple of minutes, and we are only twenty mimutes by train from the city of Cambridge.
Ely Cathedral is architecturally one of the most magnificent buildings in England. The view from the south-east is world famous, as is the lantern tower. But the interior is rather dull, despite the wonderful unbroken vista down what is England's longest cathedral. Apart from the architecture, very little of medieval origin survives - there is a small cluster of stained glass in one chapel, and the stone carvings of the beautiful lady chapel, but that is about all. The narrow Norman aisles, with their grey, oppressive vaulting, are not really a pleasure to walk, and there are no cloisters. And while the lady chapel is breathtaking, is it any more magnificent than a dozen or more East Anglian churches - Salle, Walpole St Peter or Blythburgh, for example? Ironically, Ely is one of the few English cathedrals which charges an entrance fee, a whacking £5.50 (Lincoln, a much more important and beautiful interior, charges £4, while Norwich and Peterborough, the other two great medieval Cathedrals in this corner of England, are completely free).
I remember how the great west doorway and the north transept doorway would stand open during the day. As a child, I would leave my grandparents house in Chiefs Street, and walk the length of the nave and out through the transept to get to the market place. Everybody used the Cathedral to get from one part of this tiny, beautiful city to another, just as their ancestors and predecessors had for hundreds and hundreds of years. But no longer.
I know I have already shot wasps. They make remarkably expressive subjects and they are a bit scarey when I am very close to them. I found this large nest during the week so went back to visit them today, armed with the macro lens. They know when I am there because they form a defensive line which is both amusing and menacing. I am yet to be stung.
Nikon D90
f/11
1/60 sec
ISO 400
105mm macro lens
Flash on TTL at 1/32 power
20 May 2019 - Who Is Afraid of Citizen Participation?
Chloé Pahud, Co-founder, Civocracy.
OECD Headquarters, Paris
Photo: OECD/ Stéphane Kyndt
From the S/S 2010 Collection: "Earth & Industry"
Designer: Ashley Marie Bowman
MUA: Chëla Olea
Model: Fernanda @ Paragon
© Claudia Susana
****** ****** September 2012 - This photograph is used by 'LENSCHOICE .NET', a Russian lens comparison site to show the abilities of the Nikkor AF-S DX 18-105mm f/3.5-5.6G ED *****
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Photograph taken at 13:20pm on August 22nd 2012 off Main Road A20 near the famous Lion pub in the centre of Farningham village, on the old wooden bridge that spans the River Darent in Farningham, Dartford, England.
Nikon D7000 66mm 1/400s f/5.3 iso200
Nikkor AF-S DX 18-105mm f/3.5-5.6G ED. UV filter.
As Tall As Lions "Maybe I'm Just Tired"
If love comes your way
don't be afraid
Unlock the box you heart's encased
Hope it wont change
and beware of the games
that she'll want to start playing
Oh, lately babe
I stay awake thinking this life gets lonely
Well maybe I'm just scared
scared to let you go
I want you to know
right from hello
your love just keept me wondering
Well maybe I'm just tired
tired of never knowing
I know I'm not good enough for you
If I can be saved
show me the way
Help me help myself, baby
Don't be confused
our love is true
Just tell by the way I'm looking at you.
CHILL OUT, it's called a strapless bra.
disclaimer: any perverted comments will be erased, and I will block you.
File name: 10_03_000963b
Binder label: Home Products
Title: Don't be afraid. Mice like Bon Ami will not scratch. [back]
Created/Published: N. Y. : Geo. S. Harris & Sons
Date issued: 1870-1900 (approximate)
Physical description: 1 print : chromolithograph ; 9 x 14 cm.
Genre: Advertising cards
Subject: Children; Mice; Household soap
Notes: Title from item.
Statement of responsibility: The Bon Ami Company
Collection: 19th Century American Trade Cards
Location: Boston Public Library, Print Department
Rights: No known restrictions.
A Multi Media Performance by Rhodri Hugh Thomas in Collaboration With Carolina Vasquez Based on the poem and art work “Who’s Afraid?” by Susan Richardson and Pat Gregory.First performance in the Willow Theatre. Photo by Valeria Pacchiani
Our contribution to the Southend fringe festival.
Thanks to John Bulley
Venus mark Becci & the southend Fringe lot.
Shout out to Leon & poppy for helping me paint.
Ekto , Musa Harry bones& Reakt
Maurizio Cattelan
Not Afraid of Love
Avec ”All” au Guggenheim en 2011, on pensait que « tout » avait été dit. Comme souvent avec Maurizio Cattelan, nous étions sur une fausse piste…
Ce qui devait être le salut final d’une carrière éblouissante, faite d’œuvres qui ont marqué l’époque, de scandales, de profondeur, de fracas et d’humour, n’était qu’une (ir)révérence de plus.
Cinq ans plus tard, Cattelan revient au travail. Il a choisi la Monnaie de Paris pour son exposition la plus importante en Europe, et la plus importante depuis sa rétrospective New-Yorkaise. Cette exposition à la Monnaie de Paris, sous le commissariat de Chiara Parisi, est une exposition qui sera profondément « habitée » par Cattelan. Un choix d’œuvres, dont l'image reste pour toujours accrochée à la rétine, seront exposées dans les salons XVIIIème siècle de la Monnaie de Paris.
Irrévérencieux, génial, facétieux, drôle, grave, provocateur, cynique, potache, Maurizio Cattelan n’est jamais là où on l’attend. Les visages de Cattelan sont autant d’uppercuts qui nous laissent KO.
Et c’est là son paradoxe ultime, sa capacité géniale à transformer une fuite en pirouette sublime : Cattelan n’aura jamais été aussi présent dans une exposition, et pourtant chacune de ses œuvres hurle son absence.
L’effigie de Cattelan, l’art de la mise en scène, sera le cœur battant de l’exposition à la Monnaie de Paris.
Un début de réponse à son interrogation aussi pince-sans-rire que métaphysique « y-a-t-il une vie avant la mort ? ».
Cathedral, Ely, Cambridgeshire
I used to be afraid of going back to Ely. So many of the memories from the first twenty years of my life are bound up with this place. I still want to step off the bus or train and find that it is still the early 1970s, to wander around the market with my granny, or go to my other grandparents' house in Chiefs Street for dinner before wandering off into the shops to spend my pocket money. But they are all dead now, and although many of my aunts, uncles and cousins still live in and around the city, I have no direct connection with Ely any more.
I was born here, and I still feel a sense of ownership. It is still the touchstone for our family - my children still think of Ely, in a strange way, as where their story started.
And in fact, Ely hasn't changed that much. There are still plenty of independent shops in High Street, Fore Hill and Market Street, there are still lots of the old pubs, the Thursday market is still busy with people who have come in from the Fens on buses, and talk exactly like my grandparents. I was shocked to see that they have pulled down Cutlacks the ironmongers, and I mourn the passing of the cattle market, although that, of course, could be said for many small country towns.
Is there another Cathedral city in England where the cathedral is so utterly entwined with the streets which huddle around it? There are no other tall buildings, apart from the spire of St Mary's church. The Cathedral west tower is always there, peeping above the rooftops, wherever you look towards it.
Ely is a city, and the Isle of Ely was a proud, independent county, but neither of these mean anything now, and neither of them have any political purpose any more. Today, Ely is merely the largest place served by East Cambridgeshire District Council, a completely meaningless division of the overgrown county of Cambridgeshire. I was born in the Grange Maternity Home, some 200 yards from the Cathedral's west tower; today, it is the headquarters of East Cambridgeshire District Council.
The biggest difference from twenty years ago is how quiet the streets are - they used to be so traffic-choked, but today Ely is bypassed.
And another thing which has changed is the Lamb Hotel. This is one of those grand coaching inns you often find in small country towns. When I was little, it was dead posh - we would never have gone in there. I always associate it with wedding receptions and commercial travellers. But today, we found it was a very pleasant place to stop for lunch.
Anyone coming back to Ely after half a century away might find the gentrification of the waterside area remarkable. This was where my father was born in the 1930s, in a cheerful slum of barefoot children. Today, the houses are sought after by young professionals - the walk to the station is a couple of minutes, and we are only twenty mimutes by train from the city of Cambridge.
Ely Cathedral is architecturally one of the most magnificent buildings in England. The view from the south-east is world famous, as is the lantern tower. But the interior is rather dull, despite the wonderful unbroken vista down what is England's longest cathedral. Apart from the architecture, very little of medieval origin survives - there is a small cluster of stained glass in one chapel, and the stone carvings of the beautiful lady chapel, but that is about all. The narrow Norman aisles, with their grey, oppressive vaulting, are not really a pleasure to walk, and there are no cloisters. And while the lady chapel is breathtaking, is it any more magnificent than a dozen or more East Anglian churches - Salle, Walpole St Peter or Blythburgh, for example? Ironically, Ely is one of the few English cathedrals which charges an entrance fee, a whacking £5.50 (Lincoln, a much more important and beautiful interior, charges £4, while Norwich and Peterborough, the other two great medieval Cathedrals in this corner of England, are completely free).
I remember how the great west doorway and the north transept doorway would stand open during the day. As a child, I would leave my grandparents house in Chiefs Street, and walk the length of the nave and out through the transept to get to the market place. Everybody used the Cathedral to get from one part of this tiny, beautiful city to another, just as their ancestors and predecessors had for hundreds and hundreds of years. But no longer.